University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
HENRY  C.    WARING 


'/S°  LIBRARY. 


isl' 


POEMS 


OF 


EDGAR  ALLAN  POE, 


INCLUDING   SOME  .fOEMS 
NOT   HITHERTO   INTRODUCED   IN   HIS   WORKS 


TO   WHICi:    IS   ADDED 

A  FULL  AND  IMPARTIAL 


0F 

With  Original  Notes  and  Explanatory  Remarks  to  the  Poema 


ILLUSTRATED. 


NEW  YORK: 
HURST    &    CO.,    PUBLISHERS, 

NO.    122    NASSAU   STREET. 


COPYRIGHT,    1882. 

BY  HENKY  L,.    WILLIAMS. 


"a 


ARGYLE    PRESS, 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING, 
24  A  26  WOOSTER  ST.,  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS. 


PAG«. 

Biographical  Data 5 

Memoir  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe 11 

The  Raven 53 

Lenore 62 

The  Bell 65 

Annabel  Lee 70 

Ulalume >     73 

The  Coliseum 78 

To  Helen 80 

To 82 

A  Valentine 85 

To  My  Mother 86 

A  Hymn 87 

An  Enigma 88 

The  Haunted  Palace 89 

The  Conqueror  Worm 92 

To  One  in  Paradise 94 

To  F.— S.  S.  O.— D : 96 

The  City  in  the  Sea 97 

Silence 100 

The  Sleeper 101 

The  Valley  of  Unrest 104 

A  Dream  within  a  Dream 106 

Dreamland , 107 

To  Zante 110 

Eulalie Ill 

Eldorado 113 

Israfel 115 

3 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

For  Annie 118 

To  F 123 

Bridal  Ballad 124 

To 126 

Scenes  from  "Politian" 128 

POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 

Sonnet.— To  Science 150 

Al  Aaraaf 151 

To  the  River 170 

Tamerlane 171 

Fairy-land 180 

To  L.  M.  S. 182 

Romance 183 

To 184 

A  Dream 185 

The  Lake.— To 187 

Song 188 

Hymn  in  Honor  of  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton 189 

Introductory  Preface 191 

The  Happiest  Day 193 

Lines  Written  in  an  Album 193 


BIOGRAPHICAL  DATA. 


January  19,     1809.  Born  at  Boston,  Massachusetts. 
December  8,    1811.  His  mother  died  at  Richmond,  Virginia. 
"      [Edgar  Poe  adopted  by  Mr.  John  Allan.  J 
1816.  Brought  to  Europe,  and  placed  at  school  In 
Stoke  Newington. 

1821.  Returns  to  the  United  States. 

1822.  Placed  at  school  in  Richmond,  Virginia. 
February  1,     1826.  Enters  University  of  Virginia. 

[Signs  matriculation  book,  14th  February 

1836.] 
December  15,  1826.  Leaves  University  of  Virginia. 

1827.  "Tamerlane  and  Other  Poems "  printed  at 

Boston. 

June?  1827.  Departs  for  Europe. 

March,  1829.  Returns  to  Richmond,  Virginia. 

"      Publishes    "  Al    Aaraaf,   Tamerlane,    and 

Minor  Poems,"  at  Baltimore. 
July  1,  1830.  Admitted  as  cadet  to  West  Point  Military 

Academy. 

March  6,          1831.  Dismissed  the  Military  Academy. 
"      Publishes  "Poems,  "New  York. 

Autumn,          1833.  Gains  prize  from  Saturday  Visiter  (Bal- 
timore). 
December,       1835.  Editor  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger 

(Richmond,  Virginia^. 
May  16,  1836.  Married  to  his  cousin,  Virginia  Clemm,  at 

Richmond.       [Virginia  C.  born  August 

13th,  1822.] 


BIOGRAPHICAL  DATA. 


January, 


July, 

Autumn, 
July, 


June, 

January, 
April, 
Spring, 
Autumn, 


1837. 

1837-8. 
1838. 

1838. 
1839. 

1840. 
1840. 


1841. 
1842. 
1843. 
1844. 


January  29,  1845. 

February  28,  1845. 

March  8, 

July, 
««  « 

November  1,      " 


1846. 


Winter, 

December, 

February, 

June  23, 

•     28, 


Summer  " 

January  30,     1847. 
February  17,      " 


Resigns  editorship  of  Southern  Literary 
Messenger. 

Resides  in  New  York. 

"Arthur  Gordon  Pym"  published,  New 
York  and  London. 

Removes  to  Philadelphia. 

Editor  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  Phila- 
delphia. 

"Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque" 
published,  Philadelphia. 

"The  Conchologist's  First  Book"  pub- 
lished, Philadelphia. 

Resigns  editorship  of  Gentleman's  Maga* 
eine. 

Editor  of  Graham's  Magaz ine, Philadelphia. 

Resigns  editorship,  of  Graham's  Magazine. 

Gains  $100  prize  for  "  The  Gold  Bug." 

Sub- editor  of  the  Evening  Mirror,  New 
York. 

"The  Raven"  published  in  the  Evening 
Mirror. 

Lectures  in  New  York  Historical  Society's 
room. 

Joint-editor  of  the  Broadway  Journal. 

"  Tales  "  published,  New  York  and  London. 

Sole-editor  of  the  Broadway  Journal. 

Proprietor  of  Broadway  Journal. 

"  The  Raven  and  Other  Poems  "  published, 
New  York  and  London. 

Lectures  at  Boston  Lyceum. 

Broadway  Journal  disposed  cf 

"The  Literati"  begun  in  Godey's  Lady's 
Book. 

Evening  Mirror  publishes  libel. 

"  Reply"  to  libel  in  Philadelphia  Saturday 
Gazette. 

Removes  to  Fordham. 

His  wife  dies. 

Gains  libel  suit  against  Evening  Mirror. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  DATA.  in 

February  b,     1848.  Lectures  in  New  York  Historical  Society's 

room. 
Summer,  "      "  Eureka "  published,  New  York. 

«  "      Richmond,  Virginia,  revisited. 

-'  «      Lectures  at  Lowell,  Mass.,  and  Providence, 

R.  I. 

October,  "      Betrothed  to  Mrs.  Whitman. 

December,  "      Engagement  with  Mrs.  Whitman  broken  oft 

June  30,          1849.  Departs  for  the  South. 
Autumn,  "      In  Richmond  and  neighbourhood. 

October  7,  "      Dies  at  Baltimore,  Man-land. 

November  17. 1875.  Monument  Inaugurated,  Baltimore. 


.  .    MEMOIR 

OF 

EDGAR    ALLAN    FOE. 


|«|J0^APOLEON,  when  a  flattering  courtier 
f|lld||  sought  to  prove  that  the  Corsican  was  de- 
<gf^i!l£c)  scended  from  some  great  mediaeval  an- 
°£p°  cestor,  tersely  rebuked  the  sycophant  by 
saying,  "  I  am  the  Rudolph  of  my  race."  Poe's  ill- 
judging  friends  might  have  spared  themselves  much 
useless  labor  if  they  had  been  satisfied  with  giving 
us  the  particulars  of  his  life,  and  left  the  shadowy 
forms  of  his  ancestry  to  float  in  the  dim,  hazy  at- 
mosphere of  the  seas  of  Morven.  Nothing  re- 
liable is  known  of  his  ancestors  till  his  paternal 
grandfather,  David  Poe,  arrived  in  America 
while  very  young,  in  the  company  of  his  parents. 
This  gentleman  grew  up  an  ardent  lover  of  his 
adopted  country,  and  was  a  prominent  figure  in 
many  of  the  memorable  affairs  leading  to,  and 

11 


12  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POK 

forming  part  of  the  struggles  and  sacrifices  for  In- 
dependence. Eb  was  much  esteemed  for  his  ability 
and  probity,  and  attained  the  rank  of  General.  His 
son  David,  the  father  of  Edgar,  received  an  ex- 
cellent education  in  the  private  schools  of  the  city  of 
Baltimore.  Here  we  may  remark,  in  passing,  that 
the  schools  of  that  day — whatever  may  have  been 
their  shortcomings  in  other  respects — fulfilled  the 
leading  purpose  of  all  educational  institutions  ;  they 
formed  good  scholars.  After  leaving  school  David 
was  placed  with  Mr.  William  Gwynn  to  study  law. 
He  had,  however,  no  desire  to  be  enrolled  among 
the  disciples  of  Marshal  and  Story,  but  had  a  strong 
desire  to  emulate  the  labors  and  share  the  laurels 
of  Garrick  and  Macklin.  He  was  a  leading  spirit 
in  an  Amateur  Company,  and  clandestinely  left 
Baltimore  for  Charleston,  where  he  was  about  to 
make  his  appearance  as  an  actor.  His  uncle, 
William  Poe,  however,  induced  him  to  relinquish 
his  design,  and  placed  him  in  the  law  office  of  the 
Honorable  John  Forsyth  of  Augusta,  Georgia- 
This  gentleman  was  related  to  the  Poes  by  mar- 
riage. Rumor  was  not  disposed  to  credit  this  some- 
what tame  account  of  young  David's  reason  for 
going  to  Charleston.  It  was  generally  believed 
that  the  young  devotee  of  the  Drama  had  seen  and 
fallen  in  love  with  a  very  fair  and  very  clever 
young  lady,  Miss  Elizabeth  Arnold.  Attempts  ap- 
pear to  have  been  made  by  David  Poe's  relatives 
to  interfere  in  this  little  love  affair,  and  with  the 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POK  13 

usual  result.  The  lovers  were  married.  The  lady 
and  her  husband  had  at  the  time  of  their  bridal 
attained  the  ripe  age  of  nineteen.  Angry  at  what 
they  deemed  a  rash  and  foolish  union,  the  bride- 
groom's parents  reused  to  countenance  it.  Thus 
thrown  upon  their  own  resources,  the  young  people 
determined  to  look  to  the  stage  for  support. 
Elizabeth  Arnold,  now  Mrs.  David  Poe,  was  born 
at  sea,  of  English  parents,  who  belonged  to  re- 
spectable families  in  their  native  country.  There 
was  not  a  scintilla  of  evidence  to  support  the  ridicu- 
lous story  once  set  afloat  that  she  was  related  to 
the  traitor  Benedict  Arnold. 

Edgar  Poe's  mother  was  quite  handsome,  and 
evinced  considerable  ability  both  as  a  vocalist 
and  an  actress.  His  father  never  attained  any 
eminence  upon  the  stage,  but  had  varied  and  re. 
liable  qualities.  Mrs.  David  Poe  appears  to  have 
had  an  excellent  education,  and  some  good  paint- 
ings executed  by  her  are  still  extant.  But  little 
is  known  of  the  pecuniary  results  of  their  dramatic 
efforts  during  the  years  following  their  marriage  ; 
but  as  the  lady  played  such  leading  characters  as 
Ophelia  and  Cordelia,  and  the  husband  performed 
mostly  in  secondary  roles,  their  emoluments,  even 
in  those  times,  must  have  been  considerable.  It 
has  been  noted  as  a  singular  circumstance,  by  those 
inclined  to  note  parental  influences,  that  on  an  even- 
ing just  nine  months -before  Mrs.  Poe  gave  birth 
to  her  gifted  (and  seemingly  predestined  to  grief f 


14  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAll  ALLAN  POE. 

son,  she  appeared  in  the  gloomy  "  Robbers,"  under 
unusually  trying  and  depressing  surroundings. 

Edgar  Foe  was  born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  on  the 
19th  of  January,  1809.  He  was  the  second  child, 
the  first  being  William  Henry,  and  the  third 
Rosalie. 

When  the  terrible  tragedy  of  the  conflagration 
of  tho  Richmond  Theatre  occurred  in  the  year 
1811,  Edgar':,  mother  and  father  were  performing 
in  that  house0  Both  fortunately  escaped,  only  to 
die  very  soon  thereafter  by  early,  but  quite  natural 
deaths. 

Even  when  still  a  mere  infant,  Edgar  Poe  ap- 
pears to  have  been  gifted  with  more  than  usual 
beauty,  and  had  a  pleasing  disposition,  as  he  won 
the  liking  of  his  grandfather's  folks ;  for  by  this 
time,  thanks  to  his  mother's  attractive  qualities  and 
excellent  character,  the  disinherited  David  had 
been  forgiven  his  disobedient  act  in  marrying  so 
young. 

Edgar  remained  with  his  mother  until  her  death. 
Prior  to  which  a  wealthy  merchant,  Mr.  John 
Allan,  a  Scotchman  by  birth,  but  a  Virginian  by 
choice,  adopted  the  boy.  Hence,  for  many  years, 
he  went  by  the  name  of  Edgar  Allan.  Mr.  Allan, 
besides  being  exceedingly  wealthy,  was  married  to 
a  beautiful,  accomplished  and  most  affectionate 
lady.  But  the  worthy  pair  were  childless.  It  was 
given  out,  and  generally  believed,  that  Edgar  Allao 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  15 

would  be  the  sole  heir  to  the  worthy  people  who 
had  so  kindly  adopted  him. 

Edgar,  at  a  very  early  period,  displayed  unusual 
precocity.  Even  before  he  could  read  well,  he 
could  memorize,  and  declaim  choice  passages  from 
the  English  dramatists  and  other  poets,  with  fiery 
energy  and  good  expression.  Add  to  this,  that  his 
manner  s  were  refined  andhis  disposition  kindly. 
Although  such  displays  must  have  been  pleasing  to 
this  child  of  genius,  and  gratifying  to  those  who 
had  adopted  him,  yet  they  were  sowing  seeds  that 
afterwards  blossomed  into  poisonous  flowers ,  men- 
tal henbane  and  nightshade.  When  his  excitable 
nature  and  fervid  impulses  should  have  been  calmed 
and  repressed,  they  were  inordinately  excited  and 
fired  by  injudicious  and  probably  extravagant 
eulogies. 

He  was  kept  at  the  best  schools  in  Richmond, 
until  1816,  when  he  went  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Allan 
to  Great  Britain.  His  adoptive  parents  resided  in 
London,  while  Edgar  was  placed  at  a  school  in 
Stoke  Newington,  then  an  adjacent  parish — now 
a  part  of  London,  the  mighty  metropolis.  The 
master  of  this  school,  Dr.  Bransby,  was  a  fair 
scholar,  and,  as  was  the  custom  of  that  period,  a 
stern  disciplinarian.  "When  Poe  retired  from  this 
school  he  was  credited  with  being  a  fair  French 
and  Latin  scholar,  and  having  an  unusually  good 
acquaintance  with  general  literature.  Dr.  Bransby, 
speaking  of  Poe  in  after  years,  says  he  was  "  a 


16        MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POK 

quick  and  clever  boy,"  but,  poor  fellow,  his  parents 
spoiled  him  by  giving  him.  an  extravagant  allowance 
of  pocket  money,  which  enabled  him  to  get  into  all 
manner  of  mischief.     The  peculiar  appearance  of 
the  school  itself,  a  sombre  old  manor  house,  and  its 
gloomy  surroundings,  no  doubt  had  a  gre-it  influ- 
ence on  Foe's  morbidly  sensitive  mind — one  capa- 
cious of  harboring  and  brooding  over  tho  gloomy 
and  the  wierd.    Some  five  years  of  Poe's  short  life 
were  spent  in  this  venerable  academy,  almost  mon- 
astic in  its  seclusion,  environed  as  the  grounds  were 
by  a  high  and  solid  brick  wall,  topped  with  a  la}Ter 
of  mortar  and  broken  glass.     At  an  angle  of  this 
ponderous  wall,  frowned  a  more  ponderous  gate, 
rivetted   and  studded  with  iron  bolts,    and   sur- 
mounted with  iron  spikes.  These  particulars  of  his 
school-house  were  indelibly  fixed   in   the  future 
poet's  exceptive  soul,  and  with  many  others  were 
introduced   by  him  in  his  stories.     Poe's  school 
recollections,  taken  altogether,  do  not  appear  un- 
pleasant, and  he  doubtless  derived  much  of  that 
extraordinary  mastery  of  detail,  which  afterwards 
displayed  itself  in  his  most  popular  and  peculiar 
productions,  by  the  strict  methodical  manner  and 
method  of  the  old  English  school  pedagogues. 

In  the  year  1821,  the  boy  came  back  to  his  native 
land,  and  after  a  few  months  of  not  unprofitable 
idling — for  he  was  already  mapping  out  future 
poems — he  was  sent  to  a  school  in  Eichmond. 
Here  the  Allans  had  resumed  their  abode.  Here, 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  17 

too,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  he  was  again 
known  as  Edgar  A.  Poe.  According  to  the  recol- 
lections of  his  school-fellows,  the  youth — now  in  his 
fifteenth  year — attracted  notice  among  his  com- 
panions by  his  athletic  performances.  Proving 
himself  a  wonderful  runner,  leaper  and  swimmer. 
Indeed,  some  of  his  recorded  f^its  excel  those  of 
"  champions  "  of  the  present  age,  when  great  at- 
tention is  given  to  such  exercises.  But  it  was  not 
only  by  his  excellence  in  bodily  exercises  that  Poo 
was  rendered  famous.  As  a  Latinist  he  was  only 
second  in  the  large  academy,  and  in  general  learn- 
ing he  was  easily  first.  Even  at  this  cany  period 
of  his  life  he  displayed  great  excellence  in  the  met- 
rical formation  of  verses.  At  this  time,  too,  a  lady 
of  the  finest  culture  to  whom  one  of  Poe's  friends 
had  shown  some  of  his  poetry,  praised  it  very  highly. 
The  gentleman  who  gives  these  recollections  of 
Poe's  school-days,  also  suggests  that  the  poet's 
morbid  sensitiveness  may  have  been  increased,  if 
not  engendered,  by  the  circumstance  that  in  those 
days  the  society — the  so-called  upper  classes — was 
at  that  time  permeated  with  an  aristocratic  feeling, 
in  which  the  pride  of  birth  was  a  prominent  ele- 
ment. Now  boys  catch  this  feeling  very  quickly, 
and  display  it  in  an  exaggerated  form,  so  that  very 
ottcn  Edgar's  proficiency  as  a  scholar  and  his  skill 
as  an  athlete  were  rather  acknowledged  grudgingly 
than  yielded  freely.  As  Poe  was  looked  down 
upon  as  being  the  orphan  child  of  an  actress,  and 


18  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  FOR 

the  protege  of  a  business  man.  Both  professions 
being  looked  down  upon  with  a  kind  of  dignified 
contempt  by  the  sons  of  the  landed  gentry.  With 
many  boys  the  ill-concealed  slights  of  these  thought- 
less lads  would  only  have  been  food  for  a  hearty 
laugh — from  others,  more  passionate,  would  have 
been  repaid  with  a  smart  blow ;  but  Edgar,  evi- 
dently, let  the  slight  but  poisoned  wounds  fester 
and  gall  him  with  their  venom.  His  own  descrip- 
tion of  his  disposition  before  he  had  received  much 
unkindness  from  the  world,  he  has  himself  furnished 
us  with.  "My  own  tenderness  of  heart  was  so 
conspicuous  as  to  make  me  the  jest  of  my  compan- 
ions. I  was  especially  fond  of  animals,  and  was 
indulged  by  my  parents  with  a  great  variety  of 
pets.  With  these  I  spent  most  of  my  time,  and 
never  was  so  happy  as  when  feeding  and  caressing 
them.  This  peculiarity  of  my  character  grew  with 
my  growth,  and  in  my  manhood  I  derived  from  it 
one  of  my  principal  sources  of  pleasure.  To  those 
who  have  cherished  an  affection  for  a  faithful 
and  sagacious  dog,  I  need  hardly  be  at  the  trouble 
of  explaining  the  nature  or  the  intensity  of  the 
gratification  thus  derivable.  There  is  something  in 
the  unselfish  and  self-sacrificing  love  of  a  brute, 
which  goes  directly  to  the  heart  of  him  who  has 
had  frequent  occasions  to  test  the  paltry  friend- 
ship and  gossamer  fidelity  of  mere  man."  With  all 
this  gentleness  and  kindheartedness,  there  was  noth- 
ing girlish  in  his  feelings ;  for  about  this  time  it 


MEMOIR    OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  19 

was  that  lie  started  with  a  companion,  "Robert  Mayo, 
Jr.,  in  his  "  celebrated  swim  from  Richmond  to 
Warwick  Bar,  six  miles  down  James  River.  The 
day  was  oppressively  hot,"  continues  Mayo,  "  and 
I  concluded  rather  than  continue  the  infliction  to 
stop  at  Tree  Hill,  three  miles  from  town.  Poe, 
however,  braved  the  eun,and  kept  on,  reaching  the 
goal,  but  emerging  from  the  water  with  neck,  face, 
and  back  blistered."  This  feat,  however,  being 
doubted,  Robert  G.  Cabel,  afterwards  not  only  at- 
tested its  truthfulness,  but  added,  as  of  his  own 
knowledge,  that  Mr.  Poe  did  not  seem  at  all 
fatigued,  and  walked  back  to  Richmond  immedi- 
ately after  the  feat." 

A  schoolmate  of  Edgar  A.  Poe,  Mr.  Andrew 
Johnston,  says  that  in  1823  he  went  to  a  school, 
then  taught  by  a  Mr.  William  Burke,  and  there  he 
met  with  Edgar  A.  Poe.  The  too  be  famous  poet 
was  "  then  a  much  more  advanced  pupil  than  any 
of  us ;  but  there  was  no  other  class  for  him,  and 
he  had  nothing  to  do  to  keep  his  headship  of  the 
class.  We  all  admired  his  great  and  varied  talents, 
and  were  proud  of  him  as  the  most  distinguished 
schoolboy  of  the  town.  In  person  he  was  active, 
sinewy  and  graceful.  In  athletic  exercises  he 
was  foremost.  ******  H|S  disposition  was 
amiable,  and  his  manners  pleasant  and  courteous." 

While  at  this  academy,  Poe  went  with  a  school- 
mate to  his  home,  and  saw  Mrs.  Helen  Stannard, 
the  mother  of  his  young  friend.  This  lady  re- 


20  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE. 

ceived  the  orphan  lad  very  kindly,  and  afterwards 
became  the  confidant  of  all  his  boyish  sorrows,  and 
hers  was  the  one  redeeming  influence  that  saved 
and  guided  him  in  the  earlier  days  of  his  turbu- 
lent and  passionate  youth. 

Even  at  this  early  age  Foe  was  haunted  by  those 
dismal  fancies,  which  grew  with  his  growth,  that 
"  the  dead  are  not  wholly  dead  to  consciousness," 
and  it  was  this  feeling,  those  who  knew  him  be- 
lieve that  restrained  him  more  than  once  from  con- 
tracting another  marriage  after  his  beloved  wife's 
death.  He  sometimes  shuddered  as  he  feared 

Lest  the  dead,  who  is  forsaken, 
May  not  be  happy  now." 

During  his  school-days  at  Richmond,  Edgar  fell 
in  love  with  a  Miss  S.  Elmira  Royster.  The 
parents  of  the  young  Miss  lived  directly  opposite 
the  residence  of  Mr.  Allan,  and  the  two  families 
were  quite  intimate.  The  boy-lover  plunged  over 
head  and  ears  in  platonic  admiration,  and  wrote 
glowing  tributes  to  the  young  maiden's  charms. 
Her  father  intercepted  his  passionate  pleas,  and 
it  was  only  after  the  young  lady  became  a  wife,  as 
Mrs.  Shelton,  that  Poe  became  aware  that  the  first- 
lings of  his  Muse  never  reached  the  fair  object  of 
his  adoration.  The  youthful  passion — if  so  pure  a 
feeling  can  be  denominated  passion — was  not  with- 
out an  effect  on  the  warm-hearted  visionary,  and 
tinged  much  of  his  writing  with  melancholy  hue. 

In  1826  Edgar  entered  as  a  pupil  the  University 


POES  COTTAGE  AT  FORDHAM. 


MEMOIR  OF  ED  GAR  ALLAN  POK  21 

of  Virginia,  at  Charlottesville,  and.  proved  a  dili- 
gent pupil  and  a  well-behaved  young  man.  Here 
he  attained  some  distinction  as  a  student  in  both 
ancient  r.»nd  modern  languages.  He  was  well  liked 
by  his  fellow-scholars.  But  even  then  the  more 
observing  marked  his  reserved  manners,  so  unusual 
in  a  lad  of  his  years.  At  this  time  he  practiced 
charcoal  drawing,  covering  the  walls  of  his  dor- 
mitory with  life-size  pictures.  His  favorite  amuse- 
ment at  this  period  was  rambling  about  and  in  the 
Ragged  Mountains  near  the  University.  He  rarely 
had  any  companion  except  his  dog.  Some  of  the 
solitudes  were  so  lone  and  seemingly  inaccessible 
that  Foe  has  written,  "  1  could  not  help  believing 
that  the  green  sods  and  the  gray  rocks  upon  which 
I  had  stood  had  been  trodden  never  before  by  the 
foot  of  a  human  being."  Of  course  this  manner 
of  life  nourished  his  melancholic  temperament,  and 
added  to  his  grave  and  sombre  aspect.  Just  a 
month  before  he  attained  his  fifteenth  year  he  left 
the  University.  A  few  evenings  previously  he 
kindled  a  fire  in  his  room  with  what  remained  of 
his  candles  and  the  fragments  of  his  table. 

The  City  of  Boston,  which  saw  his  birth,  was 
also  honored  by  seeing  the  entrance  upon  this  "great 
stage  of  fools"  of  his  first  literary  offering  to  fame. 
Much  investigation  has  been  given  to  his  reasons 
for  going  to  the  tri-mountain  city  in  order  to  pub- 
lish his  little  volume.  It  was,  probably,  because 
even  then  the  city  in  which  Holmes  lives,  and  in 


22  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

which  Longfellow  died,  was  esteemed  the  most 
"  literary  "  place  in  our  country — hence  styled 
"  the  Athens  of  America."  His  first  venture  was 
a  little  volume  of  forty  pages,  and  entitled,  "Tam- 
erane  and  other  Poems."  By  a  Bostonian. 

"  Young  heads  are  giddy,  and  young  hearts  are  warm, 

And  make  mistakes  for  manhood  to  reform.  — COWPEB. 
Poston:  Calvin  Thomas,  1827. 

The  book,  for  some  never  explained  reason,  was 
soon  suppressed.  Though  crude  in  expression  and 
strongly  infected  with  the  worst  Byronisms,  it  had 
yet  many  passages  betraying  the  latent  powers  of 
the  writer.  Of  these  powers  he  was  by  no  means 
unconscious,  as  witness  such  lines  as  follow: 

"  There  is  a  power  in  the  high  spirit 
To  know  the  fate  it  will  inherit  : 
The  soul,  which  knows  such  power,  will  still 
Find  pride  the  ruler  of  its  will." 

Most  of  the  pieces,  the  author  tells  us  in  his 
preface,  were  written  when  he  was  but  fourteen. 

The  young  poet's  visit  to  Europe,  in  the  early 
summer  of  1827,  has  never  been  very  satisfactorily 
detailed.  He  appears  to  have  been  filled  with  the 
same  romantic  Hellenism  which  surcharged  the 
heart  of  him  who  so  gloriously  sung  : 

"  To  Greece  we  give  our  shining  blades." 

But,  unlike  Byron,  he  has  left  no  record  of  his 
movements  on  the  sacred  soil  where 

"  Homer  sung  and  Sappho  loved." 

One  biographer  of  the  poet  says  that  Poe  had 
written  a  novel,  founded  upon  the  circumstances 


MEMOIR  OF  EbGAR  ALLAN  POE.  23 

ih.  which  he  figured  while  in  Europe,  but  he 
deemed  it  too  sensational  to  suit  American  tastes. 
Certain  it  never  saw  the  light  in  print.  He  was 
away  from  Richmond  nearly  two  years ;  and  on 
his  return  to  the  erewhile  hospitable  home,  he 
found  that  his  truest  friend,  the  amiable  Mrs.  Allan, 
had  been  buried  the  day  before  he  readied  her  late 
residence.  Edgar  deeply  felt  the  loss  of  his  adop- 
tive mother,  and  always  alluded  to  her  with  reve- 
rent affection.  Mr.  Allan  appears  to  have  looked 
coldly  upon  the  young  man,  and  for  a  time  he  vis- 
ited round  among  the  friends  of  his  real  father 
About  this  time  he  published  his  second  poetical 
venture  ;  this  time  under  his  own  name.  A  brothei 
poet,  John  Neal,  being  applied  to  by  Foe  for  an 
opinion,  gave  him  considerable  praise  and  much 
useful  advice.  This  edition  contained  "  Tamerane" 
much  improved,  and  the  new  poem  of  "Al  Aaraaf ." 
Passages  of  power  and  beauty  abound  in  the  pieces 
composing  this  work,  and  appreciative  readers 
might  well  have  foreseen  the  future  greatness  of  the 
writer. 

In  the  year  1830  Edgar  was  admitted  as  a  cadet 
at  West  Point  Military  Academy.  General  Win- 
field  Scott,  among  other  influential  personages, 
added  the  weight  of  his  recommendation  to  open  the 
doors  of  the  institution  to  him.  He  was  just  then 
in  his  twenty -first  year,  a  little  later  and  he  would 
have  been  too  old  to  enter  the  portals  of  that 
famous  fortress.  The  exercises,  both  mental  and 


24  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  FOR 

physical,  at  that  time  were  prolonged  and  incessant 
Edgar  early  discovered  that  the  iron  rules  of  dis- 
cipline and  set  forms  of  study  were  entirely  unsuited 
to  his  erratic,  if  not  to  say  vagrant,  disposition. 
He  did  not  take  kindly  to  the  military  drill  or  the 
stern  mathematical  studies  which  form  the  great 
part  of  the  education.  He  seemed  to  have  little 
liking  for  the  place  or  its  inmates.  A  fellow  cadet 
says  of  him  :  "  At  this  time  Poe  had  a  worn,  weary, 
discontented  look,  not  easily  forgotten  by  those  who 
were  intimate  with  him."  He,  however,  established 
a  high  reputation  for  genius,  and  his  poems  and 
squibs,  of  local  interest,  were  daily  going  the  round 
of  the  classes.  Some  of  his  classmates  recall  many 
acts  of  irregularity,  hard  to  tolerate  even  in  an 
academy  not  bound  by  such  cast  iron  rules. 

A  classmate  of  Foe's,  writing  of  this  portion  of 
the  latter's  life,  says  that  "  his  acquaintance  with 
English  literature  was  extensive  and  accurate,  and 
his  verbal  memory  wonderful.  He  would  repeat 
both  prose  and  verse  by  the  hour,  and  seldom  or 
never  repeated  the  same  passage  twice  to  the  same 
person." 

By  the  end  of  the  year  1830  Foe  seems  to  have 
grown  tired  of  his  life  at  the  Academy,  and  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  leave  it.  This  idea  did  not  suit 
Mr.  Allan,  and  he  refused  to  sanction  it.  The 
gentleman  who  had  hitherto  found  funds  for  the 
young  cadet  was  now  the  husband  of  a  second  wife, 
and  an  heir  had  been  born  to  him,  so  that  lie  had, 


MEMOIR  Or  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  2i 

presumably,  pretty  heavy  drafts  upon  his  exchequer. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  he  refused  peremptorily  to  apply 
for  his  removal  from  West  Point.  The  consequence 
was  that  Edgar  purposely  was  guilty  of  offences 
against  discipline,  for  which  he  was  court  martialed 
aad  dismissed  the  service,  and  ceased  to  be  con- 
sidered a  member  of  the  Military  Academy  after 
the  6th  of  March,  1881. 

Proceeding  to  New  York,  he  determined  to  make 
a  living  by  his  pen.  A  few  months  later  he  pub- 
lished "  A  Volume  of  Poems.  By  Edgar  A.  Poe. 
Elam  Bliss,  publisher."  All  the  poems  in  this 
book  of  124  pages  are  contained  in  his  later  collec- 
tions. It  was  dedicated  to  his  comrades,  "  The 
United  States  Corps  of  Cadets."  The  young  officer* 
subscribed  liberally  for  volumes,  at  two  dollars  an*!; 
a  half  each.  But  the  fledgling  generals  were  muci. 
disappointed,  as  the  book  contained  none  of  tin 
squibs  and  satires  with  which  he  had  delighted  them 
in  the  Academy.  Prefixed  to  this  volume  was  a 
long  preface,  only  remarkable  as  showing  how  thor- 
oughly he  had  investigated  all  the  pros  and  cons  of 
rhythm  and  rhyme.  The  profits  of  this  volume 
were  small,  and  soon  expended ;  and  he  quickly 
made  his  way  back  to  Eichmond.  Going  straight 
to  Mr.  Allan's  house,  he  met  that  gentleman's 
second  wife.  He  was  told  Mr.  A.  was  sick,  and 
declined  to  see  him.  He  appears  to  have  spoken 
his  mind  freely,  if  not  sharply,  to  the  young  wife. 
The  ultimate  result  of  the  interview  was  that  he 


26  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POti. 

angrily  left  the  mansion — never  again  to  enter  it, 
A  brief  correspondence  ensued  between  the  father 
and  his  adopted  son  ;  and  the  young  man,  who  had 
been  taught  to  consider  himself  presumptive  heir 
to  a  large  fortune,  found  himself  penniless. 

The  next  two  years  are  a  complete  blank  in  the 
author's  history.  "We  have  half  a  dozen  imaginary 
stories,  but  nothing  on  which  the  least  reliance  can 
be  placed.  If,  as  has  been  alleged,  he  found  in 
literature  a  living,  it  is  very  strange  that  no  pub- 
lisher can  recall  the  fact  of  having  employed  him. 
It  seems  impossible,  too,  that  in  twenty-four 
months  he  should  have  written  nothing  in  prose  or 
poetry  of  sufficient  merit  to  have  called  forth  abun- 
dant praise  if  not  proiit. 

With  certainty  we  next  hear  of  him  in  Baltimore. 
This  was  in  1833.  At  this  time  he  wrote  several 
of  his  bizarre  stories.  His  recompense  was  very 
slight,  and  he  was,  consequently,  living  in  extreme 
poverty.  In  1833  he  was  awarded  prizes  of  one 
hundred,  and  of  fifty  dollars,  respectively,  for  the 
best  story  and  the  best  poem  offered  for  competi- 
tion. The  three  gentlemen  who  decided  his  wcrk 
to  be  the  best,  were  both  astonished  and  charmed 
with  the  great  merit  the  author  had  shown,  and 
Mr.  Kennedy  (himself  an  able  author)  invited  him 
to  dine  with  him.  It  needs  no  lively  fancy  to 
divine  what  must  have  been  the  poor  but  proud 
young  man's  humiliation  when  penning  the  follow- 
ing reply : 


OF  EDGAR  AltAlf  P0£  27 


"  Yonr  invitation  to  dinner  has  wounded  me  to 
the  quick.  I  cannot  come  for  reasons  of  the  most 
humiliating  nature  —  my  personal  appearance.  You 
may  imagine  my  mortification  in  making  this  dis- 
closure to  you,  but  it  is  necessary." 

Mr.  Kennedy  visited  him  ;  found  his  sad  story 
too  true  ;  and  thenceforward  proved  himself  one 
of  his  most  reliable  friends.  After  this  his  pros- 
pects grew  brighter  as  to  the  possibility  of  making  a 
living  by  his  literary  labors.  And  in  good  time 
came  this  assurance,  for  his  adoptive  father  died  on 
the  £7th  of  March,  1834.  Edgar  Allan  Foe's 
name  was  not  even  mentioned  in  his  will. 

At  different  times  portions  of  his  tragedy  of 
u  Politian  "  were  published,  which,  though  full  of 
passages  of  great  power  and  exceeding  beauty, 
were  apparently  not  so  highly  thought  of  as  to  in- 
duce Poe  to  publish  it  entire.  It  was,  however, 
translated  into  French,  and  highly  spoken  of  by 
its  readers  in  that  language. 

For  several  years  Poe  continued  to  write,  for  dif- 
ferent magazines,  many  of  those  wierd,  unearthly 
stories,  that  fill  the  reader  with  alternate  fear,  hor- 
ror, dislike  and  admiration.  They  are  absolutely 
unique  and  original  in  all  respects.  He  also,  during 
this  time,  wrote  many  of  those  profound,  analytical. 
but  deep-cutting  reviews  which  attracted  much  at- 
tention, some  admiration,  and  made  for  the  author 
many  life-long  and  inveterate  enemies.  The  black- 
est cloud  has  the  brightest  lining,  and  so  it  seemed 


28  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

in  Poe's  case.  For  during  his  extreme  poverty, 
he  met,  at  Baltimore,  his  Aunt  Maria,  the  widow  of 
his  Uncle  William.  A  man  who  had  patriotically 
given  largely  of  his  time  and  means  to  the  cause 
of  his  country  during  the  Revolution,  and  was  able 
to  leave  his  widow  a  faultless  reputation  and — 
comparative  poverty.  The  widow  invited  Edgar 
to  live  beneath  her  humble  roof,  and  offered  to 
share  what  little  room  she  had  with  her  brother's 
son. 

Mrs.  Clemm  had  "  one  only  daughter,  and  she 
was  passing  fair" — indeed  all  persons  that  had  seen 
her  unite  in  ascribing  to  her  "  the  beauty  of  a 
fairy  and  the  purity  of  a  seraph."  Edgar,  now  in 
the  early  months  of  manhood,  became  completely 
tnthralled  by  the  charms  of  the  lovely  Virginian. 
As  the  girl  was  born  on  the  13th  of  August,  1822, 
she  was  as  yet  almost  a  child,  when  she  became  the 
wife  of  her  gifted  but  penniless  cousin.  The  mar- 
riage took  place  on  the  6th  of  May,  1836,  at  Rich- 
mond. The  young  bride's  mother  took  up  her 
abode  with  the  youthful  pair  ;  who  surely  needed 
some  guardian  to  direct  their  immature  beginnings. 
But  Poe's  literary  earnings  were  very  small,  al- 
though he  labored  assiduously  on  the  "  Southern 
Literary  Messenger"  and  scarcity  of  funds  was  the 
dominant  condition  of  the  little  household. 

Soon  after  we  find  Poe  in  New  York,  where  nis 
mother-in-law  tried  to  eke  out  their  limited  means 
by  keeping  a  boarding-house.  An  inmate  of  their 


MAKIA  CLEMM,  MOTHER  OF  VIRGINIA  FOB. 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAX  POK  29 

residence,  by  no  means  addicted  to  flattery,  thus 
speaks  of  the  young  couple  at  this  time  :  "  Mr.  Poe 
was  uniformly  quiet,  reticent,  gentlemanly  in  de- 
meanor, and  during  this  time  not  the  slightest  trace 
of  intoxication  or  dissipation  was  discernible  in  the 
illustrious  inmate.  He  had  an  extra  inducement  to 
be  a  good  man  as  well  as  a  good  husband,  for  he 
had  a  wife  of  matchless  beauty  and  loveliness ;  her 
eyes  could  match  those  of  an  houri,  and  her  face 
defy  the  genius  of  a  Canova  to  imitate,  a  temper 
and  disposition  of  surprising  sweetness,  besides  she 
seemed  as  much  devoted  to  him  and  his  every  in- 
terest as  a  young  mother  is  to  her  first-born.  Poe 
had  a  remarkably  pleasant  and  prepossessing  coun- 
tenance, what  the  ladies  would  call  decidedly  hand- 
some." 

Too  soon  the  passionately  loving  husband  became 
convinced  of  the  fact  that,  in  his  own  eloquent 
phrase,  "  the  finger  of  death  was  upon  her  bosom 
— that,  like  the  ephemeron,  she  had  been  made  per- 
fect only  to  die." 

Thanks  to  the  untiring  teaching  of  her  husband, 
Virginia  had  learned  several  languages,  and  had  be- 
come an  accomplished  musician. 

In  1838,  Harper  &  Bros.,  the  even  then  cele- 
brated publishers, issued  "  The  Narrative  of  Arthur 
Gordon  Pym,  of  Nan  tucket."  As  full  of  truthful 
realism  as  any  of  Defoe's  wonderful  books.  But 
neither  poetry  nor  prose — although  both  teemed 
with  genius,  originality,  and  exquisite  diction— 


£6  MEMOIR  OF  ED  G AH  ALLAN  POE. 

brought  in  the  "  shekels."  Like  the  apostle  he 
might  truly  aver,  "  silver  and  gold  have  I  none." 

Toward  the  close  of  1838  Foe  was  a  resident  of 
Philadelphia,  writing  industriously,  for  small  pay, 
brilliant  stories  and  able  reviews.  Soon  after  he 
published  a  volume  entitled  "  Tales  of  the  Grotesque 
and  Arabesque."  This  work  attracted  a  good  deal 
of  attention ;  but  the  profits  from  its  sale  were  small. 
IH  1840  the  names  of  Burton  and  Poe  appear  as 
joint  editors  on  the  cover  of  u  The  Gentleman's 
Magazine."  It  seems  like  a  conjunction  of  honey  and 
verjuice,  this  union  of  the  over  jolly  ;'Toodles"  and 
the  grave,  not  to  say  saturnine  author  of  the  sombre 
"  Haven."  W.  E.  Burton  and  Poe  had  a  misunder- 
standing in  reference  to  a  disputed  account,  and  Poe 
transferred  his  talents  to  "  Graham's  Magazine." 
In  this  periodical  appeared  the  greater  number  of 
his  famous  "  analytical "  stories,  in  which  he  puts 
together  and  afterward  dissects  some  of  the  most 
ingenious  mental  problems  that  ever  a  vivid  imagina- 
tion conceived  and  figured  out  These  stories  have 
been  translated  into  many  languages. 

For  nearly  two  years  he  remained  with  Mr.  Gra- 
ham, and  during  that  period  the  circulation  of  the 
then  famous  magazine  was  continuously  increasing. 
Why  he  severed  his  connection  with  it  has  never 
been  explicitly  told.  But  we  may  surmise  that  the 
habit  of  taking  stimulants  had  unsettled  his  habits 
of  industry  and  regularity.  The  poet  and  the  pub- 
lisher parted  company  the  best  of  friends  *  and  Mr. 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  31 

Graham,  writing  afterwards  about  his  talented 
sditor,  said  :  "  He,  Poe,  had  the  docility  and  kind- 
heartedn-ss  of  a  child.  No  man  was  more  quickly 
touched  by  a  kindness,  none  more  prompt  to  atone 
an  injury.  For  three  or  four  years  I  knew  him  in- 
timately. *  *  *  Knowing  all  his  hopes  and  fears 
and  little  annoyances  of  life,  as  well  as  his  high- 
hearted struggle  with  adverse  fate — yet  lie  was 
always  the  same  polished  gentleman — the  quiet,  un- 
obtrusive scholar  —the  devoted  husband — frugal  in 
his  personal  expenses  .  .  .  and  the  soul  of 
honor  in  all  his  transactions."  Poe  himself,  in 
answer  to  the  inquiries  of  a  friend,  gave  as  a  reason 
for  his  falling  into  "irregularities,"  which  injured 
himself  more  than  any  other,  the  facts  that — "  Six 
years  ago  the  greatest  c  evil'  which  can  befall  a  man 
befell  me.  Six  years  ago,  a  wife,  whom  I  loved 
as  no  man  ever  loved  before,  ruptured  a  blood- 
vessel in  singing.  Her  life  was  despaired  of.  I 
took  leave  of  her  forever,  and  underwent  all  the 
agonies  of  her  death.  She  recovered  partially,  and 
I  again  hoped.  At  the  end  of  a  year  the  vessel 
broke  again.  I  went  through  precisely  the  same 
scene.  *  *  *  Then  again — again — and  even  once 
again,  at  varying  intervals.  Each  time  I  felt  all 
the  agonies  of  her  death — and  at  each  accession  of 

O 

the  disorder  I  loved  her  more  dearly  and  clung  to 
her  life  with  more  desperate  pertinacity.  *  *  * 
I  became  insane,  with  long  intervals  of  horrible 
sanity.  During  these  fits  of  absolute  insanity  J 


32  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAH  POE. 

drank — God  only  knows  how  often  or  how  much. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  my  enemies  referred  the  in- 
sanity to  the  drink,  rather  than  the  drink  to  the  in- 
sanity." Farther  on,  in  answering  his  mean  and 
vindictive  assailants,  he  says  :  "  I  have  absolutely 
not  the  slightest  pleasure  in  the  stimulants  in  which 
I  sometimes  indulge  so  madly.  It  has  not  been  in 
the  pursuit  of  pleasure  that  I  have  perilled  life, 
and  reputation,  and  reason.  It  lias  been  the  des- 
perate attempt  to  escape  from  torturing  memories." 

The  death  of  the  young,  lovely  and  idolized  wife 
was  the  last  shaft  from  the  bow  of  misfortune,  and 
it  remained  quivering  in  the  sensitive  heart  of  the 
poet  long  ai  life  lasted.  The  friends  of  the  poet 
dwell  lovingly  on  the  home  and  its  surroundings,  of 
the  poet  and  his  wife.  One  writes :  "  She  (Vir- 
ginia) had  a  voice  of  wonderful  sweetness,  and  was 
an  exquisite  singer,  and  in  some  of  their  more  pros- 
perous days,  when  they  were  living  in  a  pretty  little 
moss-covered  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  Philadel- 
phia, she  had  her  harp  and  piano." 

Captain  Mayne  Reid,  the  famous  author  and 
gallant  soldier,  in  writing  of  Poe  and  his  surround- 
ings at  this  period,  gives  us  some  little  insight  into 
his  manner  of  life.  Poe,  1  have  known  for  a  whole 
month  closeted  in  his  house,all  the  time  hard  at  work 
with  his  pen,  poorly  paid  and  hard  driven  to  keep 
the  wolf  from  the  door,  visited  only  by  a  few  select 
friends,  who  always  found  him  what  they  knew  him 
to  be,  a  generous  host,  an  affectionate  son-in-law 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE,  33 

and  husband."  ******  Of  Mrs.  Poe, 
Reid  says,  "  she  was  angelically  b  eautiful  in  per- 
son, and  not  less  beautiful  in  spirit.  No  one  who 
remembers  that  dark-eyed,  dark-haired  daughter  of 
Virginia — her  grace,  her  facial  beauty,  her  demeanor, 
so  modest  as  to  be  remarkable,  no  one  who  has  ever 
spent  an  hour  in  her  company,  but  will  endorse 
what  I  have  said.  I  remember  how  we,  the  friends 
of  the  poet,  used  to  talk  of  her  high  qualities,  and 
when  we  talked  of  her  beauty,  I  knew  well  that  the 
rose-tint  upon  her  cheek  was  too  bright,  too  pure 
to  be  of  earth.  It  was  consumption's  color,  that 
sadly  beautiful  light  that  beacons  to  an  early 
tomb."  At  this  time  it  was  only  through  the  good 
management  of  Virginia's  mother,  Mrs.  Clemm, 
that  the  little  furniture  was  kept  together,  and  that 
they  were  able  to  keep  a  roof  over  their  heads. 
For  it  must  be  constantly  borne  in  mind  that  Edgar 
knew  positively  nothing  of  housekeeping  affairs — 
for  while  at  home  with  his  mother  he  was  a  mere 
child ;  and  while  living  with  the  Allans  he  had 
every  want  supplied  before  he  expressed  a  wish  for 
it.  For  Mr.  A.  kept  house  "  like  a  fine  old  Vir- 
ginia gentleman,  at  a  bountiful  old  rate."  While 
the  Poes  lived  in  this  little  cottage  Virginia  broke 
a  blood-vessel,  while  in  the  act  of  singing.  From 
that  moment  she  was  a  great  sufferer,  as  was  her 
husband,  who  was  perpetually  haunted  by  fear  of 
her  sudden  death.  Such  a  delicate  invalid  requires 
all  the  soothings  and  shields  with  which  wealth  can 


34  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

protect  from  chill  winds  or  stifling  atmospheres ; 
as  well  as  all  those  nourishing  viands  and  strength- 
ening drinks  so  necessary  to  keep  up  the  vital 
forces.  Poe,  who  well  knew  how  impotent  he  was 
to  provide  all  these  for  his  sick  wife,  suffered  ten 
times  the  anguish  that  a  man  of  a  less  sensitive 
nature  would.  In  vain  he  threw  off  article  after 
article,  countersigned  by  the  stamp  of  the  finest 
genius — few  and  paltry  were  the  rewards  that  came 
to  the  depleted  exchequer  of  the  isolated  little 
cottage. 

But  we  need  not  linger  over  these  sadly  at- 
tractive details  of  our  author's  life. 

About  this  time  he  wrote  to  several  of  his  friends 
— some  of  whom  he  presumed  had  more  or  less  in- 
fluence with  the  Administration  at  Washington, 
imploring  them  to  try  to  procure  him  a  post  under 
government — even  one  of  five  hundred  dollars  a 
year,  but  in  vain.  He  was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which 
successful  office-seekers  are  moulded. 

There  is  but  a  scant  supply  of  Macenases  in 
modern  times,  else  Burns  had  not  been  a  gauger, 
and  Poe  an  unsuccessful  applicant  for  a  paltry 
custom-house  clerkship.  Locke,  the  author  of  one 
Moon  Hoax,  got  a  clerkship,  but  they  were  evi- 
dently too  much  afraid  of  overburthening  the  de. 
partments  with  brains  to  appoint  the  author  of 
another  to  office.  Or,  perhaps,  they  thought  that 
people  who  knew  so  much  about  Luna,  might  be  a 
species  of  Lunatics. 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  35 

In  November,  184:2,  unusual  attention  was  at- 
tracted to  Snowden's  Magazine,  in  which  appeared 
Poe's  great  prose  tale  of  "  The  Mystery  of  Marie 
Roget."     This  was  in   reality  founded  upon  "  the 
untimely  taking  off"    of   Mary    Cscelia   Rogers, 
otherwise  known  as  the  Beautiful  Cigar   Girl.  The 
subject  just  suited  Poe's  peculiar  train  of  thought, 
and  among  thinking  people   the  story  was  a  very 
great  success.     In  1843  Poe  received  the  prize  of 
$100   offered  for  the  best  story.     The  piece  was 
named  "  The  Gold  Bug,"  and  was  undeniably  the 
most  popular  of  his  prose  stories.     Of  Tennyson, 
Poe  thus  says — in  a  critique  on   Channing,  written 
at  this   time — "  For   Tennyson,  as  for   a  man  im- 
bued with  the  richest  and  rarest  poetical  impulses, 
I  have   an   admiration — a  reverence  unbounded." 
This  shows  our  poet's  keen  appreciation  of  literary 
genius.     For   at  the  time  this  was  written  Tenny- 
son had  not  yet  been  unanimously   crowned  lord 
of  all  the  realms  of  poesy. 

In  1849  we  find  the  poet  once  more  in  New 
York.  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis  speaks  of  being  visited 
by  Mrs.  Clemm  on  his  behalf,  and  remarks  of  the 
occasion,  that  the  poet  "  wrote  with  fastidious  dif- 
culty,  and  in  a  style  too  much  above  the  popular 
level  to  be  well  paid.  He  was  always  in  pecuniary 
difficulty,  and,  with  his  sick  wife,  frequently  in 
want  of  the  merest  necessities  of  life." 

Poe  was  soon  engaged  on  the  Evening  Mirror, 
a  journal  owned  and  edited  by  Morris  and  Willis. 


36  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE. 

X.  P.   Willis  is,  perhaps,  better  appreciated  as  h 
poet  at  this  time  than  lie  was  during  his  life.    Yery 
many  of  his  sacred  poems  are  fairly  imbued  with 
holy  tli oughts  expressed  in  exquisite  versification. 
George  P.  Morris,  still  remembered  for  many  pleas- 
ing songs,  deserves  a  warmer  remembrance  for  his 
genial  and  hospitable  nature,  and  generous  actions, 
As  an  offset  to  the  slurs  and  insinuations  of  others 
regarding  Poe's  conduct,  it  may  not  be  amiss  to 
quote  here  somo  further  remarks  made  about  him 
by  N.  P.  Willis — a   gentleman    who    was   by   no 
means  prone  to  shower   laudations   upon   brother 
poets  :  "  As  time  went  on,  however,  he  was  invari- 
ably punctual   and    industrious.      With   his   pale, 
beautiful   and    intellectual  face,  as  a   reminder  of 
what    genius    was    in    him,  it    was   impossible,  of 
course,  not  to  treat  him  always    with   deferential 
courtesy,  and  to   our    occasional   request   that   he 
would  not  probe  too  deep  in  a  criticism,  or  that  he 
would  erase  a  passage  colored  too  highly  with  his 
resentments  against  society  and  mankind,  he  readily 
and  courteously  rssented — far  more  yielding  than 
most  men,  on  points  so  excusably  sensitive.     *     * 
During  all  his  intercourse  with  us,  we  had  seen  but 
one  presentiment  of  the   man — a  quiet,  patient,  in- 
dustrious and  most  gentlemanly  person,  commend- 
ing the  utmost  respect  and  good  feeling  by  his  un 
varying  ability. 

At  this  period  Poe  added   to  his  labors   some 
translating  from  the  French,  but  by  this  he  added 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAV  POK  37 

little  to  his  fame,  and  less  to  his  finances.  He  still 
continued  to  write  brief  articles  for  the  3lirror,and 
occasionally  stories.  Some  of  the  latter  very  supe- 
rior. But  the  continued  drudgery  brought  in  but 
poor  pecuniary  results. 

In   184:5  Poe  seemed  to  have  reached  the  high- 
est point  of  his  literary  aspirations — he  h^,d  sue- 
Boedal  in  gatting  tli3  sole  control  of  a  paper  of  his 
own,  "  The  Broadway  Journal"     It  was  on  the 
29th  of  January  of  this  year  that  the  never-to-be- 
silenced    croaking  of  "  The"   Raverfs  "  sad  refrain 
"  Nevermore  "  smote  the  ear.     It  was  universally 
copied,  recited  publicly  and  privately,  and  wildly 
estolled.     It  took  its  ph\ce  side  by  side  with   "  Ye 
Ancient  Mariner,"  probably  never  to  be  displaced  ; 
so  manifold  are  its  merits,  so  few  its   defects,  so 
quaint,  subtle,  harmonious,  yet  so  wierd    by  disso- 
nant are  some  of  its  chords — bearing  that  strange, 
yet  dismal  fascination,  akin  to  the  unearthly  melo- 
dies of  the  -^Eolian  harp  which  sometimes  sounds  as 
if  angel  and   demon  fingers  were  touching  differ- 
ent strings  of  the  same  instrument. 

Prior  to  the  issuance  of  his  masterly  poem,  "  The 
Haven,"  Poe  was  personally  known  to  but  few. 
But  now  the  doors  of  many  of  the  best  people,  who 
had  any  literary  proclivities  or  pretentious,  flew 
open  at  his  approach.  Many  stories,  some  greatly 
embellished,  and  others  entirely  baseless,  were 
abroad,  touching  his  peculiar  habits  and  idiosin- 
crasies  ;  all  this,  added  to  his  sad  visage  and  melan- 


38  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

choly  eyes,  invested  him  with  a  species  of  romantic 
mysticism. 

The  day  after  "  The  Haven"  appeared,  Poe  might 
have  said — like  Byron — that  he  "  awoke  in  the 
morning  and  found  himself  famous." 

Foe  continued  to  write  industriously  stories,  criti- 
cisms and  satires  of  uneven  merit,  but  all  bearing, 
more  or  less  distinctly,  struck  the  "  Tower  mark" 
of  talent.  A  collection  of  his  stories  was  printed 
in  New  York  and  reprinted  in  England,  of  these 
Martin  F.  Tupper  wrote  very  highly.  In  France, 
from  a  keener  critic,  they  received  the  eulogism 
of  a  translation.  The  Spaniards  quickly  naturalized 
his  works  in  vivid  translations;  and  the  Germans 
and  Italians  transmuted  his  thoughts  into  their 
several  languages. 

"While  writing  in  reference  to  Mrs.  Mowatt's  tak- 
ing to  the  stage  as  a  profession,  Poe  seizes  the 
opportunity  to  speak  thus  eloquently  of  the  theatre 
and  its  votaries  :  "  We  have  no  sympathies  with  the 
prejudices  that  would  have  dissuaded  Mrs.  Mowatt 
from  the  stage.  There  is  no  cant  more  contempt- 
ible than  that  which  habitually  decries  the  theatrical 
profession — a  profession  which,  in  itself,  embraces 
all  that  can  elevate  and  enoble,  and  absolutely  noth- 
ing to  degrade.  If  some,  if  many,  or  if  nearly  all 
of  its  members  are  dissolute,  this  is  an  evil  not 
arising  from  the  profession  itself,  but  from  the 
unhappy  circumstances  which  surround  it.  *  *  * 
In  the  mere  name  of  actress  she  can  surely  iind 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  39 

nothing  to  dread — nothing,  or  she  would  be  un- 
worthy of  the  profession,  not  the  profession  un- 
worthy of  her.  The  theatre  is  ennobled  by  its  high 
facilities  for  the  development  of  genius — facilities 
not  afforded  elsewhere  in.  equal  degree.  By  the 
spirit  of  genius  we  say  it  is  ennobled,  it  is  sanctified 
beyond  the  sneer  of  the  fool  or  the  cant  of  the 
hypocrite.  The  actor  of  talent  is  poor  of  heart, 
indeed,  if  he  do  not  look  with  contempt  upon  the 
mediocrity  even  of  a  king.  The  writer  of  this 
article  is  himself  the  son  of  an  actress,  has  invari- 
ably made  it  his  boast,  and  no  earl  was  ever  prouder 
of  his  earldom  than  he  of  his  descent  from  a  woman 
who,  although  well  born,  hesitated  not  to  consecrate 
to  the  drama  her  brief  career  of  genius  and  of 
beauty." 

While  Poe  continued  editing  "  The  Broadway 
Journal"  he  still  found  time  to  write  for  the 
American  Review  some  powerful  papers  upon  the 
American  Drama.  He  also  contributed  "  Mar- 
ginalia "  to  the  Democratic  Review  ;  which  notes 
abounded  in  quaint,  at  times,  at  other  times  shrewd 
apothegms  and  wise  saws. 

Soon  after  this  Poe  severed  his  connection  with 
the  Broadway  Journal,  but  not  without  firing  some 
farewell  shots  at  his  many  antagonists. 

Not  a  little  scandal  was  generated  by  the  friend- 
ship, which  existed  between  Mrs.  Frances  S.  Os- 
good,  the  poetess,  and  Edgar  A.  Poe.  The  "  true 
inwardness  "  of  it  was  that  the  poet  had  admired, 


10  MEMOIR  Or  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

and  highly  and  intelligently  lauded  some  of  the 
poetry  of  the  lady.  She  naturally  felt  pleased  at 
finding  the  Stylus  that  usually  flowed  with  vitriol 
now  filled  with  honied  sweets. 

Then  followed  an  introduction.  The  poet  be- 
came the  Mentor  of  the  inspired  Sappho ;  taught 
her  how  to  improve  her  already  fine  poems,  while 
she  gratified  his  vanity  by  praising  his  really  great 
productions.  If  at  times  their  lines  were  couched 
in.  warmer  terms  than  is  common  out  of  the  shades 
of  Parnassus,  their  intercourse  was  truly  Platonic, 
and  the  lady  had  as  white  a  soul  as  ever  lodged  in 
anybody's  breast. 

Writing  of  Poe's  home  life,  Mrs.  Osgood  says  : 
"It  was  in  his  own  simple,  yet  poetical  residence, 
that  to  me  the  character  of  Edgar  Poe  appeared  in 
its  most  beautiful  light.  Playful,  affectionate, 
witty,  alternately  docile  and  wayward  as  a  petted 
child — for  his  young,  gentle  and  idolized  wife,  and 
foi1  all  who  came,  he  had,  even  in  the  midst  of  his 
most  harrassing  literary  labors,  a  kind  word,  a 
pleasant  smile,  a  graceful  and  courteous  attention. 
At  his  desk,  beneath  the  picture  of  his  loved  and 
lost  Lenore,  he  would  sit,  hour  after  hour,  patient, 
assiduous,  and  uncomplaining,  tracing  in  an  ex- 
quisitely clear  chirography,  and  with  almost  super- 
human swiftness,  the  lightning  thoughts,  'the  rare 
and  radiant  fancies,'  as  they  flashed  through  his 
wonderful  and  ever  wakeful  brain.  I  recollect 
one  morning  toward  the  close  of  his  residence  in 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POR  41 

this  city,  when  he  seemed  unusually  gay  and  light 
hearted.  Virginia,  his  sweet  wife,  had  written  me 
a  pressing  invitation  to  come  to  them  ;  and  I,  who 
never  could  resist  her  affectionate  summons,  and 
who  enjoyed  his  society  far  more  in  his  own  house 
than  elsewhere,  hastened  to  Amity  street.  I  found 
him  just  completing  a  series  of  papers  entitled, 
6  The  Literati  of  New  1?  01  k.~  '  See,'  said  he,  dis- 
playing several  rolls  of  paper,  *  by  the  difference  in 
length  of  these,  the  different  degrees  of  estimation 
in  which  I  hold  all  you  literary  people.'  ***** 
Come,  Virginia,  help  me  ! "  And  one  l>y  one  they 
unfolded  them.  At  last  they  came  to  one  which 
seemed  interminable.  Virginia,  laughingly  ran  to 
one  corner  of  the  room,  with  one  end,  and  her  hus- 
band to  the  opposite,  with  the  other.  "And  whose 
lengthened  sweetness,  long  drawn  out,  is  that  ?  said 
L."  "  Hear  her,"  he  cried,  "  just  as  if  her  little 
vain  heart  didn't  tell  her  its  herself  !  " 

After  this  little  home  picture,  it  may  not  be 
amiss  to  here  quote  what  this  lady  says  in  reference 
to  his  habits  of  life.  "  I  have  been  told  that  when 
his  sorrows  and  pecuniary  embarresments  had  driven 
him  to  the  use  of  stimulants,  which  a  less  delicate 
organization  might  have  enabled  him  to  have  borne 
without  injury,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  speaking 
disrespectfully  of  the  ladies  of  his  acquaintance.  It 
is  difficult  for  me  to  believe  this ;  for  to  me,  to 
whom  he  came  during  the  year  of  our  acquaintance 
for  counsel  and  kindness  in  all  his  many  anxieties 


42  MEMOIR  OF  ED G AH  A LLA  N  P OK 

and  griefs,  lie  never  spoke  irrevently  of  any  woman, 
save  one,  and  then  only  in  my  defence  ;  and  though 
I  rebuked  him  for  his  momentary  forgetfulness  of 
the  respect  due  to  himself  and  to  me,  I  could  not 
but  forgive  the  offence  for  the  sake  of  the  generous 
impulse  which  prompted  it.  Yet,  even  were  these 
sad  rumors  true  of  him,  the  wise  and  well  informed 
knew  how  to  regard,  as  they  would  the  impetuous 
anger  of  a  spoiled  infant,  baulked  of  its  capricious 
will,  the  equally  harmless  and  unmeaning  phrenzy 
of  that  stray  child  of  Poetry  and  Passion.  For 
the  few  unwomanly  and  slander-loving  gossips  who 
have  injured  him  and  themselves  only  by  repeating 
his  ravings,  when  in  such  mood  they  have  accepted 
his  society.  I  have  only  to  vouchsafe  my  wonder 
and  my  pity.  They  cannot  surely  harm  the  good 
and  pure,  who,  reverencing  his  genius  and  pitying 
his  misfortunes  and  his  errors,  endeavored,  by  their 
timely  kindness  and  sympathy,  to  soothe  his  sad 
career." 

Mrs.  Osgood's  charitable  and  kind  opinion  of 
Poe  was  fully  reciprocated  by  him,  for  lie  speaks  of 
her  in  these  enthusiastic  sentences:  "In  character 
she  is  ardent,  sensitive  and  impulsive.  The  very 
soul  of  truth  and  honor;  a  worshiper  of  the  beau- 
tiful, with  a  heart  so  radically  artless  as  to  seem 
abundant  in  art ;  universally  admired,  respecteJ  and 
beloved.  In  person  she  is  about  the  medium  height, 
slender  even  to  fragility,  graceful  whether  in  action 
or  repose ;  complexion  unusually  pale,  hair  black 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POK  4:) 

and  glossy,  eyes  a  clear  luminous  gray,  large  and 
with  singular  capacity  for  expression."  Their  ac- 
quaintance, personally,  only  lasted  a  year.  The 
lady  then  left  to  travel  for  her  health.  She  kept 
up  a  correspondence  with  him  to  please  his  wife, 
who  believed  that  he  was  guided  by  her  advice  as 
to  disusing  all  stimulants.  Although  from  the 
tenor  of  every  one  of  Poe's  letters  to  ladies,  and 
the  responses  thereto,  it  is  quite  evident  that  all  the 
improprieties  were  summed  up  in  the  one  phrase, 
"  Want  of  deference  to  social  usages" — yet  his 
numerous  adversaries  made  the  most  of  every  in- 
discretion, and  reared  mountains  out  of  molehills. 
One  female  person — we  cannot  desecrate  the  words 
"  lady"  or  "  woman"  by  applying  them  to  her— 
happened  to  see  on  the  poet's  desk  an  opened  letter 
from  Mrs.  Osgood,  and  she  made  all  the  scandal 
she  could  out  of  its  really  innocent  contents.  A 
self-constituted  committee  of  Mrs.  Grundys  spoke 
to  Mrs.  O.,  and  pictured  in  frightful  colors  the 
terrible  consequences  which  might  follow  such  a 
correspondence,  and  persuaded  the  somewhat  timid 
poetess  to  authorize  them  to  recall  all  her  letters 
from  Poe's  hands.  The  committee  called  at  Poe's 
house,  and  the  justly  enraged  poet  dismissed  them 
as  a  set  of  busy-bodies.  One  of  the  most  officious 
of  this  set  had  herself  corresponded  with  Poe.  He 
took  his  revenge  by  placing  her  letters  in  a  package, 
and  privately  sending  them  to  her.  Mrs.  Osgood 


44  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

and  Poe  never  met  again,  but  they  kept  up  a  coi> 
respondence  to  the  end  of  their  lives. 

Poe  was,  meanwhile,  failing  in  health,  while  his 
wife  was  daily  weakening.  At  the  same  time  he 
was  increasing  his  notoriety,  rather  than  his  popu- 
larity, by  smart,  bitter,  but  oftentimes  unjust  criti- 
cisms upon  the  writings  of  his  cotemporaries.  As 
the  months  of  summer  passed  away,  with  their 
golden  evenings,  day  by  day  faded  out  the  strength 
of  his  young  wife  ;  and  the  concomitant  effect  was 
that  Poe  was  rendered  more  and  more  unfit  to  tug 
at  the  oar.  Although  the  daily  bread  of  three 
persons  depended  upon  his  exertions.  As  the  chill 
winds  of  Fall  begun  to  whistle  about  the  little  cot- 
tage that  scarcely  sheltered  them,  the  beloved  Vir- 
ginia sank  rapidly  into  a  consumption. 

Mrs.  Grove  Nichols — herself  a  woman  of  genius 
— draws  this  pitiful  picture  of  the  state  of  affairs 
at  the  Fordham  cottage.  "  I  saw  her  (Virginia)  in 
her  bedchamber.  Everything  .was  so  neat,  so 
purely  clean,  so  scant  and  poverty-stricken,  that  I 
saw  the  poor  sufferer  with  such  a  heartache.  *  *  * 
There  was  no  clothing  on  the  bed,  which  was  only 
straw,  but  had  a  snow-white  counterpane  and  sheets. 
The  weather  was  cold,  and  the  sick  lady  had  the 
dreadful  chills  that  accompanied  the  hectic  fever  of 
consumption.  She  lay  on  the  straw  bed,  wrapped 
in  her  husband's  great  coat,  with  a  large  tortoise- 
shell  cat  in  her  bosom.  The  wonderful  cat  seemed 
conscious  of  her  great  usefulness.  The  coat  and 


FAC-SIMJLE  LETTER  TO  MRS,   MARIE  LOUISE  SHEW. 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE.  45 

the  cat  were  the  sufferer's  only  means  of  warmth, 
except  as  her  husband  held  her  hands,  and  her 
mother  her  feet.  ******  AS  goon  as 
I  was  made  aware  of  these  painful  facts,  1  came  fo 
New  York  and  enlisted  the  sympathies  and  services 
of  a  ladv,  whose  heart  and  hand  were  ever  open  to 
the  poor  and  miserable.  A  feather  bed  and  abund 
ance  of  bed  clothing  and  other  comforts  were  the 
first  fruits  of  my  labor  of  love.  The  lady  headed 
a  private  subscription,  and  carried  them  sixty  dol- 
lars the  next  week.  From  the  first  day  this  kind 
lady  saw  the  suffering  family  of  the  poet,  she 
watched  over  them  as  a  mother  watches  over  her 
babe.  She  saw  them  often  and  ministered  to  the 
comfort  of  the  dying  and  the  living." 

This  lady,  who  so  unostentatiously  filled  the  role 
of  the  Good  Samaritan,  deserves  to  have  her  name 
held  in  grateful  rememberance,  was  then  Mrs. 
Shew,  since,  Houghton.  (What's  in  a  name  ? " 
may  here  be  asked,  though  it  breaks  the  current  of 
the  story.  Something  surely.  For  it  is  with  the 
name  of  Houghton  that  the  Little  Church  Around 
the  Corner  is  as  closely  entwined  as  by  its  own 
clustering  ivy.) 

N.  P.  Willis,  with  the  best  intentions,  publicly 
called  attention  to  the  circumstances  of  the  poet, 
and  greatly  hurt  his  feelings  by  so  doing. 

The  pulse  of  poor  Virginia  fluttered  feebler  and 
feebler  every  hour.  But  Mrs.  Shew  hovered  about 
the  invalid's  bed?  with  all  the  loving  care  of  a 


46  MEMOIR  OF  EDO  AH  ALLAN  POE. 

heavenly  guardian  angel.     Poe  expressed  the  fee' 
ings   of   himself  and  his  little  household  in    tht 
following  note : 

'"KINDEST,  DEAEEST  FEIEND,— My  poor  Virginia  still  lives, 
although  failing  f.xst  and  now  suffering  much  pain.  May  God 
grant  her  life  until  she  sees  you  and  thanks  you  once  again 
Her  bosom  is  fu]l  to  overflowing,  like  my  own— with  a  bound 
less  inexpressible  gratitude  to  you.  Lest  she  may  never  see  yon 
more,  she  bids  me  say  that  she  sends  you  her  sweetest  kiss  of 
love  and  will  die  blessing  you.  But  come— oh,  come  to-morrow  ! 
Yes,  I  will  be  cn,lm — everything  you  so  nobly  wish  to  see  me. 
My  mother  sends  you,  also,  her  '  warmest  love  and  thanks. ' 

"She  bogs  me  to  ask  you,  if  possible,  to  make  arrangements  at 
home,  so  that  you  may  stay  with  us  to-morrow  night.  I  enclose 
the  order  to  the  Postmaster. 

"  Heaven  bless  yon  arid  farewell.  EDGAE  A.  POE." 

Mrs.  ohew  continued  her  merciful  ministrations 
day  after  day.  Bat  was  not  present  at  the  supreme 
moment  when  Virginia  resigned  her  gentle  spirit. 
The  remains  of  the  poor  young  wife  were  "  dressed 
for  the  grave  in  beautiful  linen,"  by  the  •  kind  lady 
who  had  befriended  the  little  family. 

The  funeral  was  shorn  of  "  all  pomp  and  pagean- 
try of  woe,"  Edgar  following  the  remains  of  Vir- 
ginia to  the  grave,  wrapped  in  the  old  military 
cloak  that  had  erst  done  duty  in  shielding  the  sick 
wife.  By  the  kind  permission  of  the  owner,  Mrs. 
Poe  was  buried  in  the  family  vault  of  the  Valen- 
tines, at  Fordham. 

For  a  few  days  Poe  seemed  stunned  by  the  loss  of 
his  wife ;  but  he  had  to  rouse  himself  to  renewed 
exertion.  The  gaunt  wolf,  want,  was  only  kept 
from  the  door  by  the  continued  kindness  of  Mrs, 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  47 

Shew.  But  it  was  clearly  unfair  that  kind  heart 
and  the  ready  hand  should  be  a  continuous  sup- 
port. 

By  the  generosity  of  a  number  of  friends,  (among 
them  General  Scott,  who  had  procured  Foe  his 
cadetship  at  West  Point),  a  sum  of  money  was 
raised  sufficient  to  pay  off  a  number  of  little  debts. 

The  poet  continued  ill  for  months ;  but  the 
instant  he  began  to  gain  a  little  physical  strength, 
he  went  to  work  at  his  literary  avocations.  He 
seldom  quitted  the  little  abode  in  which  Virginia 
had  breathed  her  last ;  and  was  only  visited  by 
Mrs.  Shew  occasionally,  and  a  few  other  devoted 
friends.  Mrs.  Clemm,  during  these  dull  months, 
was  as  attentive  and  careful  as  a  real  mother  to 
the  unfortunate  man. 

In  the  beginning  of  1848,  Poe  once  more  had 
his  harness  on  for  "  the  war  of  the  one  against 
many."  For  nearly  his  whole  life  appears  to  have 
been  a  combat,  and  frequently  with  foes  who  really 
had  no  just  cause  for  their  enmity.  Once  again  he 
seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  start  his  "  Stylus."  During 
a  lecturing  tour  in  Massachusetts,  he  had  occasion 
to  s.peak  in  glowing  terms  of  the  poetry  of  Mrs. 
Helen  Whitman.  This  led  to  an  introduction. 
The  result  was  that  the  poet  fell  desperately  in  love 
with  the  beautiful  and  gifted  "American  Sappho," 
and  poured  out  his  soul  in  a  stream  of  Abelardish 
adoration.  The  lady  responded  in  some  very  ele- 
gant epistles.  This  correspondence,  though  entirely 


48  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE. 

proper  between  betrothed  lovers,  might,  perhaps, 
quite  as  well  have  been  buried  in  the  tomb  of  the 
Capulets,  with  the  bijouterie  of  the  Italian  lovers. 
We  give  a  brief  extract  from  one  of  Edgar's 
letters : 

"  Could  I  but  have  held  you  close  to  my  heart  and  whispered 
to  you  the  strange  secrets  of  its  passionate  history,  then,  indeed, 
you  would  have  seen  that  it  was  not  and  never  could  have  been 
in  the  power  of  any  other  than  yourself  to  move  me  as  I  am  now 
moved  -to  oppress  me  with  this  ineffable  emotion — to  surround 
and  bathe  me  in  this  electric  light,  illuminating  and  enkindling 
my  whole  nature— filling  my  whole  soul  with  glory,  with  won- 
der, and  with  awe.  During  our  walk  in  the  cemetery,  I  said  to 
you,  while  the  bitter,  bitter  tears  sprang  into  my  eyes.  Helen, 
I  love  you — now — now,  for  the  first  and  only  time." 

But  this  love  was  too  passionate  to  last.  The 
lady,  yielding  to  the  advice  of  friends,  and  partly 
moved  by  Foe's  appearance  at  her  house  in  a  state 
of  great  excitement — to  use  the  mildest  term — in- 
timated, kindly  but  firmly,  that  their  engagement 
must  be  canceled.  After  a  number  of  scenes  of 
parting  and  making  up  again,  Mrs.  Whitman  at 
last  yielded  to  the  almost  raving  poet  an  oppor- 
tunity to  meet  her  once  again.  When  he  appeared 
in  her  presence — we  now  use  the  lady's  words : 

"  I  was  at  last  convinced  that  it  would  be  in 
vain  longer  to  hope  against  hope.  I  knew  that  he 
had  irrecoverably  lost  the  power  of  self -recovery 
So  1  gathered  together  some  papers  which  he  had 
intrusted  to  my  keeping,  and  placed  them  in  his 
hands  without  a  word  of  explanation  or  reproach, 
and  utterly  worn-out  and  exhausted  by  mental  con- 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  40 

flicts  and  anxieties  and  responsibilities  of  the  last 
few  days,  I  drenched  my  handkerchief  with  ether, 
and  threw  myself  on  a  sofa,  hoping  to  lose  myself  in 
utter  unconsciousness.  Sinking  0:1  his  knees  be- 
side me,  he  entreated  me  to  speak  to  him  hut  one 
word.  At  last  I  responded  almost  maudibly,  '  What 
can  I  say  ?'  '  Say  that  you  love  me,  Helen.  I  love 
you.'  These  were  the  last  words  I  ever  spoke  to 
him." 

Certain  it  is,  that  whoever  was  in  fault  in  this 
unfortunate  affair,  the  "  Helen"  of  it  came  out  far 
differently  from  her  fair  namesake  of  Troy — she 
came  out  with  a  fame  as  spotless  as  the  white  bosom 
of  a  swan. 

Almost  paralleled  with  Poe's  ardent  epistles  to 
"  Helen,"  were  running  a  series  of  letters  to  the 
fair  and  accomplished  lady,  "  Annie,"  whose  ac- 
quaintance he  had  made  in  Lowell,  Mass.  This 
correspondence  marked  on  the  poet's  side  with  all 
the  fiery  utterances  of  a  man  master  of  all  love's 
eloquent  sentences,  was  responded  to  by  the  lady 
in  a  different  key.  She  had  heard  of  the  many 
troublous  incidents  in  the  poet's  sad,  if  wayward 
career,  and  she  did  pity  them — "  'twas  pitiful,  she 
s;dd — 'twas  wondrous  pitiful,"  and  some  of  the 
pale-leaved  flowers,  akin  to  love's,  sprang  up.  The 
poet  was  impassioned  and  impetuous — the  lady  kind 
and  sympathizing;  but  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe  she  passed  on  "in  maiden  meditation  fancy 
free."  It  would  not  be  proper  to  give  publicity  to 


50  MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

these  letters,  for  not  only  are  they  partly  filled  with 
those  passionate  pleadings,  so  liable  to  be  miscon- 
strued by  people  who  keep  watch  and  ward  over 
every  letter  they  indite ;  but  they  have  frequent 
reference  to  persons  who  still  live. 

In  the  summer  he  visited  Richmond,  and  called 
on  many  of  his  former  friends.  Here  he  saw  Mrs. 
Shelton,  whom  he  had  known  as  Miss  Royster, 
wrhen  he  was  a  lad.  He  received  a  very  kindly 
reception.  But  he  now  appeared  to  have  a  fatal 
facility  for  falling  in  love.  On  his  second  visit  lie 
proposed  to  the  lady — now  a  widow.  The  result 
of  his  meeting  with  the  lady  of  his  boyish  love  will 
be  seen  by  the  fact  that  lie  wrote  to  Mrs.  Clemm,  to 
let  her  know  that  he  was  about  to  wed  Mrs.  Shelton, 
and  intended  that  she  (Mrs.  C.)  should  come  to 
Richmond,  permanently  to  reside  with  them.  Sad 
presentiments  appear  to  have  clouded  the  minds  of 
both  Poe  and  the  lady,  when  he  left  to  transact 
some  business  in  New  York. 

It  was  on  the  first  or  second  of  October,  that  he 
departed  for  New  York,  and  he  safely  arrived  at 
Baltimore  in  due  time.  From  this  time,  almost  to 
the  instant  of  his  death,  his  wanderings  have  never 
been  clearly  traced.  The  most  likely  story  is  that 
having  arrived  at  a  time  when  an  exciting  election 
was  taking  place,  he  was  drugged  into  semi-uncon- 
sciousness, and  taken  from  one  polling  place  to 
another,  casting  votes  as  directed  by  his  unprinci- 
pled captors.  As  every  scoundrel  who  had  a  hand 


FOB'S  MONUMENT  AT  BALTIMORE,    (November  17th,  1875.) 


MEMOIR  OF  EDGAR  ALLAN  POC  61 

in  tins  fiendish,  and,  as  it  turned  out  to  be,  murder- 
ous crime,  had  every  motive  for  concealment,  the 
exact  facts  will  probably  never  be  brought  to  light. 
The  next  we  know  in  this  last  scene  of  all  was  that 
he  was  found  sleeping  on  a  bench  on  Light  Street 
wharf.  Here  some  of  his  relatives  found  him ;  he 
was  kindly  cared  for ;  partial  recovery  took  place ; 
but  the  iron  had  entered  too  deeply  into  the  soul ; 
and  from  the  terrible  shock  he  never  recovered. — 
He  expired  on  the  Tth  of  October,  1849- 

Two  days  after  he  was  buried  in  the  family  plot, 
in  the  Baltimore  Westminster  grave-yard,  verifying 
one  of  his  saddest  refrains  touching  "the  lonesome 
October."  A  stone,  which  one  of  his  relatives  in- 
tended to  mark  his  resting  place,  was  curiously 
shattered  by  a  railway  train,  showing  that  "  un- 
merciful disaster "  followed  him  beyond  the 
grave. 

Several  of  the  lady  friends  of  Foe  and  Virginia 
mitigated  the  grief  of  the  venerable  Mrs.  Clemm. 
Dickens,  when  in  this  country,  called  on  her,  and 
had  along  and  sympathetic  interview  with  her.  He 
also  left  her  a  substantial  gift,  as  proof  of  his  re- 
spect for  Poe's  memory.  The  old  lady  died  in 
1871,  and  was  buried  beside  her  well-beloved 
Edgar. 


THE  RAVEN. 

This  wonderful  poem  originally  appeared  in  the  Jfcw  York 
Mirror.  Amidst  the  resounding  applauses  with  which  it  was 
greeted  there  were  heard,  however,  some  mutterings  of  disap- 
proval. We  do  not  allude  to  the  assaults  of  petty  assailants 
Avho  are  always  ready  to  traduce  a  superior,  out  of  sheer  envy. 
We  never  heard  of  Shakspeare  or  Milton  disparaging  the  works 
of  their  cotemporaries.  But  in  some  of  the  attacks  upon  Poe, 
anent  his  entire  originality  in  this  matter,  there  was  considerable 
plausibility.  As  it  is  a  matter  that  has  evolved  a  good  deal  of 
discussion,  we  lay  before  the  reader  some  of  the  salient  points 
of  the  affair.  It  was  charged  that  Poe  had  boldly  plagarised 
not  only  the  general  idea  of  the  "  Raven"  but  even  many  of  the 
preculiarities  of  rythm  and  rhyme  from  Albert  Pike's  poem 
"  Isadore."  This  having  appeared  in  the  New  York  Mirror,  in 
1843,  at  a  time  when  Edgar  A.  Poe  was  engaged  as  a  writer  on 
that  journal.  It  certainly  seems  hardly  possible  that  a  poem  of 
such  real  merit,  and  in  many  respects  of  such  peculiar  construc- 
tion, could  have  been  un-noticed  and  un-appreciated  by  one 
"who  was  nothing  if  not  critical."  The  truth,  doubtless,  is 
that  in  this  instance  Poe  mistook  recollection  for  invention  ;  and 
supposed  that  he  was  originating  when  he  was,  indeed,  but  re- 
membering. We  append  two  stanzas  from  "  Isadore,"  in  order 
that  the  reader  can  judge  in  the  case  between  Albert  Pike  and 
Edgar  A.  Poe. 

Stanzas  from  "  ISADORE." 

Thou  art  lost  to  me  forever — I  have  lost  thee,  Isadore— 
Thy  head  will  never  rest  on  my  loyal  bosom  more, 
Thy  tender  eyes  will  never  more  gaze  fondly  into  mine, 
Nor  thy  arm  around  me  lovingly,  and  trustingly  entwine 
Thou  art  lost  to  me  forever,  Isadore. 

My  footsteps  through  the  rooms  resound  all  sadly  and  forlorn; 
The  garish  sun  shines  flauntingly  upon  the  unswept  floor. 

53 


54  THE  RA  YEN. 

The  mocking  bird  still  sits  and  sings  a  melancholy  strain, 
For  my  heart  is  like  a  heavy  cloud  that  overflows  with  rain. 
Thou  art  lost  to  me  forever,  Isadore. 

Mr.  John  H.  Ingraham,  Edgar  A.  Poe's  most  judicious  critic, 
and  greatest  admirer — does  not  in  this  instance,  appear  at  his 
best.  For  he  rather  superciliously,  if  not  sneeringly,  writes  of 
Albert  Pike  as  being  "  unacquainted  with  metrical  laws."  Now, 
the  truth  is  that  the  author  of  "  Isadore  "  is  a  poet  little  inferior 
to  Poe  himself,  and  has  written  many  very  beautiful  poems — 
"that  were  not  born  to  die."  By  the  way,  it  is  a  very  singular 
fact — not  apropos  in  this  connection,  perhaps — but  still  worth 
recording,  that  Albert  Pike — poet  and  soldier  was  always 
equally  welcome  to  the  lodges  of  the  Wild  Indians  and  of  the 
Free  Masons.  Two  classes  of  mankind  as  opposite  as  well  can 
be  in  precept  and  practice.  N.  P.  Willis  thus  launched  this 
poem  upon  the  billows  of  success.  "  In  our  opinion  this  is  the 
most  effective  single  example  of  '  fugitive  poetry '  ever  publish- 
ed in  this  country;  and  unsurpassed  in  English  poetry  for  sub- 
tle conception,  masterly  ingenuity  of  versification,  and  consist- 
ent sustaining  of  imaginative  lift.  It  is  one  of  those  ' '  dainties 
bred  in  a  book,"  which  we  feed  on.  It  will  stick  to  the  mem- 
ory of  every  body  who  reads  it.  The  poem  was  immediately 
re-published  in  most  American  papers.  Poe,  for  some  reason 
not  explainable — or  at  least  not  explained — appended  to  it  the 
signature  of  "  Quarles,"  when  it  was  printed  in  the  American 
Review,  (but  not  published  until  after  its  appearance  in  the  Mir- 
ror.) The  poem  gave  occasion  for  a  great  deal  of  more  or  less 
sharp  criticism ;  but  Poe  very  ably  defended  it  from  all  comers. 


upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  ponder. 

ed,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgot 

ton  lore, — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there 

.came  a  tapping, 


THE  It  A  YEN.  55 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping, — rapping  at  my 

chamber  door. 
"'Tis  some  visitor,"  1  muttered,  "tapping  at  my 

chamber  door, — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  De- 
cember, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost 
upon  the  floor, 

Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow ; — vainly  I  had  sought 
to  borrow 

From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow, — sorrow  for  the 
lost  Lenore, — 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 
name  Lenore, — 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 


And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple 

curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me — with  fantastic  terrors  never 

felt  before ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood 

repeating 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

door, — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber 

dcor. 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 


56  THE  RA  YEN. 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger :  hesitating  then  no 

longer, 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I 

implore : 
But  the  fact  is  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you 

came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my 

chamber  door, 
That.  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you."  Here  I  opened 

wide  the  door. 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there, 

wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to 

dream  before. 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave 

no  token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered 

word,  "  Lenore  !  " 
This  I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the 

word,  "  Lenore  ! " 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within 

me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  something  louder  than 

before, 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my 

window  lattice : 


THE  HA  FA'-Y.  57 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery 

explore, — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery 

explore : 

'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a 
flirt  and  flutter, 

In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days 
of  yore. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he, — not  a  minute 
stopped  or  stayed  he, 

But,  with  mein  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my 
chamber  door, — • 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  cham- 
ber door, — 

Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebon  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into 

smiling, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance 

it  wore, 
"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I 

said,  "  art  sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  Haven,  wandering  from 

the  Nightly  shore. 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's 

Plutonian  shore ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "Nevermore." 


58  PEE  ZA  YEN. 

Much  I  marveled  tliis  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  dis 

course  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy 

bore ; 
For  we  can  not  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human 

being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his 

chamber-door, — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his 

chamber-door, 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Haven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust, 

spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he 

did  outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered ;  not  a  feather  then 

he  fluttered, — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered,  "  Other  friends 

have  flown  before ! 
On  the  morrow  Tie  will  leave  mo,  as  my  Hopes  have 

flown  before ! " 

Then  the  bird  said  "  Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly 
spoken, 

"  Doubtless,"  said  I, "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock 
and  store, 

Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerci- 
ful Disaster 


THE  It  A  YEN.  59 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore, — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 

bore 

Of  '  Never, — nevermore ! ' ' 


But  the  Ra^en  still  beguilling  all  my  sad  soul  into 
smiling, 

Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird 
and  bust  and  door ; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to 
linking 

Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird 
of  yore — 

What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  om- 
inous bird  of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  ex- 
pressing 


pi  tJSB.Li.lg 

To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my 

bosom's  core : 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease 

reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight 

gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the  lamplight 

gloating  o'er, 

She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore f 


60  THE  HAVEN. 

Then,  methouglit,  the   air   grew   denser,  perfumed 

from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  Seraphim  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the 

tufted  floor. 
"Wretch!"  I  cried,  "thy  God  hath  lent  thee — by 

these  angels  He  hath  sent  thee 

\3 

Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories 

of  Lenore ! 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  the 

lost  Lenore ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  cried  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still, 
if  bird,  or  devil ! — 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed 
thee  here  ashore, 

Desolate  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  en- 
chanted— 

On  this  Home  by  horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I 
implore — 

Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  Tell  me ! — tell 
me,  I  implore ! " 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet !  "  cried  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still, 
if  bird  or  devil ! — 

By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God 
we  both  adore ! — 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  dis- 
tant Aidenn. 


THE  It  A  YEN.  61 

It  shall  ciasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels 

name  Lenore, — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels 

name  Lenore." 

Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

«'  Be  that  word  oar  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend  ! " 

I  shrieked,  upstarting. 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's 

Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul 

hath  spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken ! — quit  the  bust  above 

my  door ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form 

from  off  my  door  !  " 

Quoth  the  Haven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 

sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber 

door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that 

is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his 

shadow  on  the  floor ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating 

on  the  floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  I 


LENORK 

This  very  melodious  piece  of  versification,  was  published 
in  the  Broadway  Journal.  Having  been  greatly  altered  and 
improved  since  it  originally  appeared  under  the  title  of  "  The 
Psean." 


)  broken  is  the  golden  bowl ! — the  spirit  flown 

forever!— 
Let  the   bell   toll! — a  saintly  soul  floats   on   the 

Stygian  river ; 
And,  Guy  De  Yere,  hast  ihou  no  tear  ? — weep  now, 

or  never  more ! 

See,  on  yon  drear  and  rigid  bier  low  lies  thy  love, 
Lenore ! 

Come,  let  the  burial  rite  be  read, — the  funeral  song 
be  sung ! — • 

An  anthem  for  the  qneenliest  dead  that  ever  died  so 
young,— 

A  dirge  for  her  the  doubly  dead  in  that  she  died  so 
young. 

"  Wretches !  ye  loved  her  for  her  wealth  and  hated 
her  for  her  pride ! 

And  when  she  fell  in  feeble  health,  ye  blessed  her—- 
that she  died ! 

62 


A  SAINTLY  SQUL  FLOATS  ON  THE  STVQIAN  RIVER/1 


LENOEE.  63 

How  shall  the  ritual,  then,  be  read? — the  requiem 

how  be  sung 
By   you — by   yours,  the   evil   eye, — by    yours,  the 

slanderous  tongue 
That  did  to  death  the  innocence  that  died,  and  died 

so  young  ? " 
Peccavimus  !     But  rave  not  thus,  and  let  a  Sabbath 

song 
Go  up  to  God  so  solemnly  the  dead  may  feel  no 

wrong ! 
The  sweet  Lenore  hath  "  gone  before,"  with  Hope, 

that  flew  beside, 
Leaving  tliee  wild  for  the  dear  child  that  should 

have  been  thy  bride ! — 
For  her,  the  fair  and  debonair,  that  now  so  lowly 

lies, 
The  life  upon  her  yellow  hair,  but  not  within  her 

eyes, — 
The  life  still  there,  upon  her  hair, — the  death  upon 

her  eyes. 
"  Avaunt !     To-night  my  heart  is  light !     No  dirge 

will  I  upraise, 
But  waft  the  angel  on  her  flight  with  a  paean  of  old 

days ! 

Let  no  bells  toll ! — lest  her  sweet  soul,  amid  its  hal- 
lowed mirth, 
Should  catch  the  note,  as  it  doth  float  up  from  the 

damned  Earth ! 
To  friends  above,  from  fiends  below,  the  indignant 

ghost  is  riven,, — 


LENORE. 


From  Hell  unto  a  high  estate  far  up  within  the 

Heaven, — 
From  grief  and  groan  to  a  golden  throne,  beside  the 

.King  of  Heaven." 


THE  BELLS. 

"  The  Bells"  originated  in  some  suggestions  made  to  Poe  by 
his  good  friend  and  benefactress,  Mrs.  Shew — who  was  a  greatly 
accomplished,  as  well  as  benevolent  lady.  The  poet  was  writ- 
ing at  a  window,  which  was  open,  and  admitted  the  sound  of 
neighboring  church  bells.  Mrs.  Shew  said,  pleasantly,  "  there 
is  paper ; "  but  Poe,  declining  it,  declared,  "I  so  dislike  the  noise 
of  bells  to-night,  I  cannof  write.  I  have  no  subject — I  am  ex- 
hausted." The  lady  then  took  up  the  pen,  and,  pretending  to 
imitate  his  style,  wrote,  "  The  Bells,  by  E.  A.  Poe  ; "  and  then, 
in  pure  sportiveness,  "  The  Bells,  the  Little  Silver  Bells,"  Poe 
finishing  off  the  stanza.  She  then  suggested  the  next  verse, 
'  The  Bells,  the  Heavy  Iron  Bells  ; "  and  this,  also,  Poe  extend- 
ed  into  a  stanza.  He  next  copied  out  the  complete  poem,  and 
headed  it,  "  By  Mrs.  Shew," — remarking  that  it  was  her  poem, 
as  she  had  suggested  and  composed  so  much  of  it.  The  next 
moment  Poe  could  hardly  recall  any  of  the  incidents  of  his 
evening's  work. 

I. 

I  EAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells, — 

Silver  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells, 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinklc 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
65 


66  THE  BELLS. 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells, — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 


n. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, — 

Golden  bells ! 

What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 
From  the  molten  golden  notes 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 

On  the  moon ! 

Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future  !  How  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells, — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells  I 


OF  .  ORIGIN  ALjMss.  OF  "THE 


I 
Jj  ft 


ftt 


Di    qjrv    w.    fo 

* 


urvyyicwt, 


d.  thus*  kisvLc,   it"  i&    urno 
fu 


fa 
rrt 

of 


n. 


&JL 
&f 


of  fa        *^ 


TEE  BELLS.  67 

III. 
Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, — 

Brazen  bells ! 

What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek,  shriek, 

Out  of  tune, 

In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire. 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit,  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  Despair ! 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  I 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells. 


68  THE  BELLS. 

By  the  sinKing  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  belli 

Of  the  bells,— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells, — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells  ? 


IV. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, — 

Iron  bells  I  [pels ! 

What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  com- 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  I 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people— 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone : 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman,— 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human,-— ~ 

They  are  Ghouls ; 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls,— 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls  a  psean  from  the  bells  ! 


THE  BELLS. 

And  his  merry  bosom  swells 
"With  the  psean  of  the  bells, 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time^ 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bells, — 

Of  the  bells : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells,— - 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,— 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  rolling  of  the  bells,^- 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,— 
To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells,— 

Bells,  bells,  bells,— 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bellst 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

This  daintily  beautiful  poem  was  written  at  Fordham,  in  1849. 
Mrs.  Osgood,  who  was  intimately  acquainted  with  Poe's  acts 
and  thoughts,  remarks  of  this  piece,  that  the  idea  of  this  song 
was  suggested  to  the  poet  by  the  fate  of  his  wife.  "  The  only 
woman,"  she  goes  on  to  say,  "  whom  he  truly  loved."  This  is 
evidenced  by  the  exquisite  pathos  of  the  little  poem  [Annabel 
Lee]  lately  written,  and  which  is  by  far  the  most  natural,  sim- 
ple, touchingly  beautiful  of  all  his  songs.  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  it  was  intended  to  illustrate  a  late  love  affair  of  the  author  ; 
but  they  who  believe  this  have,  in  their  dulness,  evidently  mis- 
understood or  missed  the  beautiful  meaning  latent  in  tte  most 
lovely  of  all  its  verses  —  where  he  says,  — 

*A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 
So  that  her  high-lorn  kinsmen  came, 

And  bore  her  away  from  me.' 

There  seems  a  strange,  almost  profane,  disregard  of  the  sacred 
purity  and  spiritual  tenderness  of  this  delicious  ballad,  in  thus 
overlooking  the  allusion  to  the  kindred  angels  and  the  heav««l,y 
Father  of  the  lost  and  unforgotten  wife." 


was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know, 

By  the  name  of  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 
70 


HER  HIGH-BORN  KINSMEN  CAME  AND  BORE  HER 
AWAY  FROM  ME." 


ANNABEL  LEE.  71 

/  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea: 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love,— 

I  and  my  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 
And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me, — 
Yes ! — that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  ANNABEL  LEE. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we.— 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  :  [dreams 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me 


73  ANNABEL  LEE. 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  ANNABEL  LEE  ; 
And  so,  all  the  night  tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride. 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


ULALUME. 

This  poem  was  written  early  in  1847.  It  first  appeared  in  the 
American  Eeview  for  December,  in  that  year.  It  was  without 
the  author's  name,  and  as  it  soon  afterward  was  reproduced  in 
the  Home  Journal,  it  was  erroneously  ascribed  to  N.  P.  Willis. 
The  last  stanza  was  omitted  from  some  of  the  editions  by  Poe,. 
at  the  instance  of  Mrs.  Whitman.  Years  afterwards  the  lady 
advised  its  return,  as,  on  mature  consideration,  she  became  con- 
vinced the  lines  were  needed  to  complete  the  work. 


skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober  ; 
The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere,  — 
The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere, 
It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year  ; 
It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
In  the  misty  mid-region  of  Weir,  — 
It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic, 
Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  soul,  — 
Of  cypress,  with  Psyche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll  — 

As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll— 
73 


74  ULALUME. 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek, 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole — 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek, 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere, 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere, — 

For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 
And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year, — 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year !) 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber — 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  hereV- 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent, 
The  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, — 
As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn, — 

At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent, 
And  nebulous  luster  was  born, 

Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 
Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn, — 

Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent, 
Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said,  "  She  is  warmer  than  Dian : 
She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs, — 
She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs : 

She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 
These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 


ULALUME.  75 

And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion 
To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies, — 
To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies, — 

Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 
To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes, 

Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 
With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 
Said,  "  Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust, — 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust : 

Oh,  hasten !  oh,  let  us  not  linger  ! 
Oh,  fly ! — let  us  fly ! — for  we  must." 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 
Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 

Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust, — 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied,  "  This  is  nothing  but  dreaming : 

Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light ! 

Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light ! 
Its  Sybilic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  Hope  and  in  Beauty  to-night.: 

See  !  it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night  I 
Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 

And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright. 
We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 

That  can  not  but  guide  us  aright, 

Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the  night." 


ULALUME. 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche,  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom, — 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb,-* 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb  : 

And  I  said,  "  What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 
On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb  ? " 

She  replied,  "  Ulalume ! — Ulalume  ! — 

'Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume !  " 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 

As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere,— 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere : 

And  I  cried,  "  It  was  surely  October, — 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year, 
That  I  journeyed — I  journeyed  down  here,- 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here  r 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here  ? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber. — 
This  misty  mid-region  of  Weir, — 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dank  tarn  of  Auber,^ 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir." 

Said  we  then — the  two,  then — "  Ah,  can  it 
Have  been  that  the  woodlandish  ghouls — 
The  pitiful,  the  merciful  ghouls — 

To  bar  up  our  path  and  to  ban  it 

From  the  secret  that  lies  in  these  wolds — 


ULALUME. 


77 


Had  drawn  up  the  spectre  of  a  planet 
From  the  limbo  of  lunary  souls — 

This  sinfully  scintillant  planet 

From  the  hell  of  the  planetary  souls  ?  n 


THE  COLISEUM. 

This  was  preferred  by  a  Committee  of  literary  gentlemen 
from  several  poems,  offered  in  competition  for  a  prize  offered 
by  the  Baltimore  Visitor,  in  which  periodical  it  appeared.  The 
Committee  adjudged  it  the  best  poem  ;  but  as  Poe  had  just 
received  a  prize  for  the  best  prose  story,  they  awarded  the  priza 
— very  unjustly,  we  think — to  the  second  best  poem. 


YPE  of  the  antique  Rome  !  Rich  reliquary 

Of  lofty  contemplation  left  to  Time 
By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power ! 
At  length — at  length — after  so  many  days 
Of  weary  pilgrimage  and  burning  thirst, 
(Thirst  for  the  springs  of  lore  that  in  thee  lie,) 
1  kneel,  an  altered  and  an  humble  man, 
Amid  thy  shadows,  and  so  drink  within 
My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and  glory ! 

Vastness  !  and  Age  !  and  Memories  of  Eld ! 
Silence  !  and  Desolation  !  and  dim  Night ! 
I  feel  ye  now — I  feel  ye  in  your  strength — 
Oh,  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judean  king 
Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane ! 
Oh,  charms  more  potent  than  the  rapt  Chaldee 
Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars ! 
Here,  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls  ! 

Here,  where  a  mimic  eagle  glared  in  gold, 

78 


THE  COLISEUM.  79 

A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat ! 

Here,  where  the  dames  of  Rome  their  gilded  hair 

Waved  to  the  wind,  now  wave  the  reed  and  thistle ! 

Here,  where  on  golden  throne  the  monarch  lolled, 

Glides,  spectre-like,  unto  his  marble  home, 

Lit  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horned  moon, 

The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones  ! 

But  stay !  These  walls — these  ivy-clad  arcades — 

These  mouldering  plinths — these  sad  and  blackened 

shafts — 

These  vague  entablatures — this  crumbling  frieze — 
These  shattered  cornices — this  wreck — this  ruin — 
These  stones — alas !  these  gray  stones—are  they  all— 
All  of  the  famed  and  the  colossal  left 
By  the  corrosive  Hours  to  Fate  and  me  ? 

"  Not  all ! "  the  echoes  answered  me.     "  Not  all ! 
Prophetic  sounds  and  loud,  arise  forever 
From  us,  and  from  all  Ruin,  unto  the  wise, 
As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  Sun. 
We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men  ! — we  rule 
With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds  ! 
We  are  not  impotent — wre  pallid  stones. 
Not  all  our  power  is  gone ! — not  all  our  fame  I— • 
Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown  I—- 
Not all  the  wonder  that  encircles  as ! — 
Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie!— 
Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upoii 
And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 
Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory." 


TO  HELEN. 

These  lines  were  meant  to  apply  to  Mrs.  Helen  Stannard. 
The  poet's  acquaintance  with  her  commenced  in  this  wise  :  A 
lad,  the  son  of  this  lady,  took  Edgar  home  with  him  from 
school,  one  day.  This  lady,  on  his  entering  the  room,  took  his 
hand,  and  spoke  some  gentle  and  gracious  words  of  welcome, 
which  so  penetrated  the  sensitive  heart  of  the  orphan  boy  as  to 
deprive  him  of  the  power  of  speech.  The  lady  afterwards  be- 
came the  confidant  of  all  his  boyish  sorrows,  and  hers  was  the 
one  redeeming  influence  that  saved  and  guided  him  in  the 
earlier  days  of  his  turbulent  and  passionate  youth. 

/?|  SAW  tliee  once—  only  once — years  ago : 

I  must  not  say  Jiow  many — but  not  many. 
It  was  a  July  midnight :  and  from  out 
A  full  orbed  moon,  that,  like  thine  own  soul,  soaring 
Sought  a  precipitate  pathway  up  through  heaven, 
There  fell  a  silvery  silken  veil  of  light, 
With  quietude,  and  sultriness,  and  slumber, 
Upon  the  upturned  faces  of  a  thousand 
Roses  that  grew  in  an  enchanted  garden, 
Where  no  wind  dared  to  stir,  unless  on  tiptoe, — 
Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  these  roses 
That  gave  out,  in  return  for  the  love-light, 
Their  odorous  souls  in  an  ecstatic  death, — 

Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  of  these  roses 

80 


TO  HELEN.  8] 

That  smiled  and  died  in  this  parterre,  enchanted 
By  thee,  and  by  the  poetry  of  thy  presence. 

Clad  all  in  white,  upon  a  violet  bank 

I  saw  thee  half  reclining ;  while  the  moon 

Fell  on  the  upturned  faces  o£  the  roses. 

And  on  thine  own,  up  turned,-  «-alas,  in  sorrow! 

Was  it  not  Fate,  that,  on  this  xtrly  midnight — 

Was  it  not  Fate  (whose  name  ie  also  Sorrow) 

That  bade  me  pause  before  that  garden-gate 

To  breathe  the  incense  of  those  s?,arcbering  roses  ? 

No  footstep  stirred :  the  hated  woj'M  all  slept, 

Save  only  thee  and  me.      (Oh,  Heawi ! — oh,  God ! 

How  my  heart  beats  in  coupling  thos<a  two  words ! ) 

Save  only  thee  and  me  !  I  paused — I  looked — • 

And  in  an  instant  all  things  disappeared. 

(Ah,  bear  in  mind  this  garden  was  enchanted  $ 

The  pearly  luster  of  the  moon  went  out : 
The  mossy  banks  and  the  meandering  paths— 
The  happy  flowers  and  the  repining  trees — 
Were  seen  no  more  :  the  very  roses'  odors 
Died  in  the  arms  of  the  adoring  air. 
All — all  expire  d  save  me — save  less  than  thon: 
Save  only  the  divine  light  of  thine  eyes — 
Save  but  the  soul  in  thine  uplifted  eyes. 
I  saw  but  them — they  were  the  world  to  me: 
I  saw  but  them — saw  only  them  for  hours — 
Saw  only  them  uniil  the  moon  went  down. 
What  wild  heart-histories  seemed  to  lie  enwritten 


82  TO  HELEN. 

Upon  those  crystalline,  celestial  spheres ! 

How  dark  a  woe  !  yet  how  sublime  a  hope ! 

How  silently  serene  a-  sea  of  pride ! 

How  daring  an  ambition !  yet  how  deep — 

How  fathomless  a  capacity  for  love  ! 

But  now,  at  length,  dear  Dian  sank  from  sight, 

Into  a  western  couch  of  thunder-cloud  ; 

And  thou,  a  ghost,  amid  the  entombing  trees 

Didst  glide  away.     Only  thine  eyes  remained. 

They  would  not  go, — they  never  yet  have  gone. 

Lighting  my  lonely  pathway  home  that  night, 

They  have  not  left  me  (as  my  hopes  have)  since. 

They  follow  me — they  lead  me  through  the  years — 

They  are  my  ministers — yet  I  their  sl.ive. 

Their  office  is  to  illumine  and  enkindle 

My  duty  to  fie  saved  by  their  bright  light, 

And  purified  in  their  electric  fire, 

And  sanctified  in  their  elysian  fire. 

They  fill  my  soul  with  Beauty  (which  is  Hope), 

And  are  far  up  in  Heaven — the  stars  I  kneel  to 

In  the  sad,  silent  watches  of  my  night; 

While  even  in  the  meridian  glare  of  day 

I  see  them  still — two  sweetly  scintillant 

Yenuses,  unextinguished  by  the  sun ! 


TO 

"VTOT  long  ago,  the  writer  of  these  lines, 
^     In  the  mad  pride  of  intellectuality, 
Maintained  "  the  power  of  words,"  denied  that  ever 
A  thought  arose  within  the  human  brain 
Beyond  the  utterance  of  the  human  tongue : 
And  now,  as  if  in  mockery  of  that  boast, 
Two  words — two  foreign  soft  dissyllables — 
Italian  tones,  made  only  to  be  murmured 
By  angels  dreaming  in  the  moonlit  "  dew 
That  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill," — 
Have  stirred  from  out  the  abysses  of  his  heart, 
Unthought-like  thoughts  that  are  the  souls  of  thought, 
.Richer,  far  wilder,  far  diviner  visions 
Than  even  the  seraph  harper,  Israf^ 
(Who  has  "  the  sweetest  voice  cf  all  God's  creatures'5) 
Could  hope  to  utter.    And  I !  my  spells  are  broken. 
The  pen  falls  powerless  from  my  shivering  hand. 
With  thy  dear  name  as  text,  though  bidden  by  thee, 
I  can  not  write — I  can  not  speak  or  think — 
Alas,  I  can  not  feel ;  for  'tis  not  feeling, 
This  standing  motionless  upon  the  golden 
Threshold  of  the  wide-open  gate  of  dreams, 

Gazing,  entranced,  adown  the  gorgeous  vista, 
83 


84 


TO 


And  thrilling  as  I  see,  upon  the  right, 
Upon  the  left,  and  all  the  way  along, 
Amid  unpurpled  vapors,  far  away, 
To  where  the  prospect  terminates — tkee  only. 


A  VALENTINE. 

[eyes, 

her  this  rhyme  is  penned,  whose  luminous 
~  Brightly  expressive  of  the  twins  of  Loeda, 
Shall  find  her  own  sweet  name,  that,  nestling  lies 

Upon  the  page,  enwrapped  from  every  reader. 
Search  narrowly  the  lines  ! — they  hold  a  treasure 

Divine, — a  talisman — an  amulet  [ure — 

That  must  be  worn  at  heart.  Search  well  the  meas- 

The  words — the  syllables !  Do  not  forget 
The  trivialest  point,  or  you  may  lose  your  labor ! 

And  yet  there  is  in  this  no  Gordian  knot 
Which  one  might  not  undo  without  a  sabre, 

If  one  could  merely  comprehend  the  plot. 
Enwritten  upon  the  leaf  where  now  are  peering 

Eyes  scintillating  soul,  there  liesperdus 
Three  eloquent  words  oft  uttered  in  the  hearing 

Of  poets,  by  poets, — as  the  name  is  a  poet's,  too. 
Its  letters,  although  naturally  lying 

Like  the  knight  Pinto — Mendez  Ferdinando — 
Still  form  a  synonym  for  Truth.     Cease  trying ! 

You  will  not  read  the  riddle,  though  you  do  the 
best  you  can  do. 

[To  translate  the  address,  read  the  first  letter  of  the  first  line  in  cow 
nection  with  the  second  letter  of  the  second  line,  the  third  Utter  of  tht 
third  line,  the  fourth  of  the  fourth,  and  so  on  to  the  end.  The  namt 
will  thus  appear.] 

85 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

Zf>ECAUSE  I  feel  that,  in  the  Heavens  above, 
W     The  angels,  whispering  to  one  another, 
Can  find,  among  their  burning  terms  of  love, 

None  so  devotional  as  that  of  "  Mother," 
Therefore  by  that  dear  name  I  long  have  called  you — - 

You  who  are  more  than  mother  unto  me, 
And  fill  my  heart  of  hearts,  where  Death  installed 
jou, 

In  setting  my  Virginia's  spirit  free. 
My  mother — my  own  mother,  who  died  early, 

Was  but  the*  mother  of  myself ;  but  you 
Are  mother  to  the  one  I  loved  so  dearly, 

And  thus  are  dearer  than  the  mother  I  knew 
By  that  infinity  with  which  my  wife 

Was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  its  own  soul-life. 


86 


ELIZABETH  POE, 
(Mother  of  the  Poet). 


A  HYMN. 

This  appeared,  in  a  less  perfect  form,  in  one  of  Foe's  storief 
named  "Morella." 


HIT  morn — at  noon — at  twilight  dim — 

Maria,  thou  hast  heard  my  hymn  I 
In  joy  and  woe — in  good  and  ill — 
Mother  of  God,  be  with  me  still ! 
When  the  Hours  flew  brightly  by, 
And  not  a  cloud  obscured  the  sky, 
My  soul,  lest  it  should  truant  be, 
Thy  grace  did  guide  to  thine  and  thee » 
Now,  when  storms  of  Fate  overcast  - 
Darkly  my  Present  and  my  Past, 
Let  my  Future  radiant  shine 
With  sweet  hopes  of  thee  and  thin/ 


87 


AN  ENIGMA. 

This  piece  appeared  in  tlie  Union  Magazine,  in  1848,  and 
was  written  for  "  Stella"  (Mrs.  Estella  Anna  Lewis).  For  Poe 
— like  Swift — appears  to  have  delighted  in  giving  his  pet  cor- 
respondents more  or  less  classical  names. 

<-*  ^SELDOM  we  find,"  says  Solomon  Don  Dunce, 

"  Half  an  idea  in  the  profoundest  sonnet. 
Through  all  the  flimsy  things  we  see  at  once, 

As  easily  as  through  a  Naples  bonnet — 

Trash  of  all  trash  !—  how  can  a  lady  don  it ! 
Yet  heavier  far  than  your  Petrarchan  stuff, — 
Owl-downy  nonsense  that  the  faintest  puff 

Twirls  into  trunk-paper  the  while  you  con  it." 
And,  veritably,  Sol  is  right  enough. 
The  general  tuckermanities  are  arrant 
Bubbles, — ephemeral  and  so  transparent ! 

But  this  is,  now, — you  may  depend  upon  it, — 
'  Stable,  opaque,  immortal, — all  by  dint 
Of  the  dear  names  that  lie  concealed  within  't. 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE. 

A]  Art  from,  the  merits  of  this  poem,  it  attracted  considerable 
attention  and  controversy.  Poe  always  contended  that  Long- 
fellow's poem,  "  The  Beleagured  City,"  was  a  plagiarism  of  his 
idea.  Color  is  given  to  this  imputation,  by  the  fact  that  Long- 
fellow's poem  did  not  appear  until  the  November  of  1839  ; 
while  Poe's  was  printed  in  The  Museum,  of  April,  in  the  same 
year.  It  is  quite  possible,  however,  that  the  similarity  was  ac- 
cidental ;  as  there  is  quite  a  similitude  in  both  Poe's  and  Long- 
fellow's poems  to  "  The  Deserted  House,"  by  Tennyson,  and 
that  was  published  in  1830. 

the  greenest  of  our  valleys 
By  good  angels  tenanted, 
Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace — 

Radiant  palace — reared  its  head. 
In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion — 

It  stood  there ! 
Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 
Over  fabric  half  so  fair  ! 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 

On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow, 
(This — all  this — was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago,) 
Arid  every  gentle  air  that  dallied, 

In  that  sweet  day, 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE. 

Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid, 
A  winged  odor  went  away. 


Wanderers  in  that  happy  valley, 

Through  two  luminous  windows,  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne  where,  sitting 

(Porphyrogene  !) 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 

The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  ever  more, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 

Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 
(Ah,  let  us  mourn  ! — for  never  morrow 

Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate !) 
And  round  about  his  home  the  glory 

That  blushed  and  bloomed, 
Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 

Of  the  old  time  entombed. 


THE  HA  UNTED  PALACE.  9} 

And  travelers,  now,  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Yast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody, 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river? 

Through  the  pale  door 
A  hideous  throng  rush  out  forever 

And  laugh, — but  smile  no  more. 


THE   CONQUEROR  WORM. 

O  !  'tis  a  gala  night 

"Within  the  lonesome  latter  years. 
An  angel  throng,  bewinged,  bedight 

In  veils,  and  drowned  in  tears, 
Sit  in  a  theater,  to  see 

A  play  of  hopes  and  fears, 
While  the  orchestra  breathes  fitfully 

The  music  of  the  spheres. 

Mimes,  in  the  form  of  God  on  high, 

Mutter  and  mumble  low, 
And  hither  and  thither  fly, — 

Mere  puppets  they,  who  come  and  go 
At  bidding  of  vast  formless  things 

That  shift  the  scenery  to  and  fro., 
Flapping  from  out  their  Condor  wings 

Invisible  Woe ! 

That  motley  drama — oh,  be  sure 

It  shall  not  be  forgot ! 
With  its  Phantom  chased  for  evermore, 

By  a  crowd  that  seize  it  not, 
Through  a  circle  that  ever  returneth  in 
92 


THE  CONQUEROR   WORM. 

To  the  selfsame  spot, 
And  much  of  Madness,  and  more  of  Sin. 
And  Horror  the  soul  of  the  plot. 

But  see,  amid  the  mimic  rout 

A  crawling  shape  intrude  ! 
A  blood-red  thing  that  writhes  from  out 

The  scenic  solitude ! 
It  writhes ! — it  writhes' ! — with  mortal  pangs 

The  mimes  become  its  food, 
And  the  angels  sob  at  vermin  fangs 

In  human  gore  imbrued. 

Out — out  are  the  lights — out  all ! 

And,  over  each  quivering  form, 
The  curtain,  a  funeral  pall, 

Comes  down  with  the  rush  of  a  storm, 
And  the  angels,  all  pallid  and  wan, 

Uprising,  unveiling,  affirm 
That  the  play  is  the  tragedy,  "  Man," 

And  its  hero  the  Conqueror  "Worm,, 


TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE. 

CHOU  wast  that  all  to  me,  love, 
For  which  my  soul  did  pine, — 
A  green  isle  in  the  sea,  love, 

A  fountain  and  a  shrine, 
All  wreathed  with  fairy  fruits  and  flowers. 
And  all  the  flowers  were  mine. 

Ah,  dream  too  bright  to  last ! 

Ah,  starry  Hope  !  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast ! 

A  voice  from  out  the  Future  cries, 
«  On !  on  ! "    But  o'er  the  Past 

(Dim  gulf  !)  my  spirit  hovering  lies 
Mute,  motionless,  aghast ! 

For,  alas !  alas  !  with  me 

The  light  of  Lifo  is  o'er! 
"  No  more — no  more — no  more — " 

(Such  language  holds  the  solemn  sea 
To  the  sands  upon  the  shore) 

Shall  bloom  the  thunder-blasted  tree, 
Or  the  stricken  eagle  soar  ! 


And  all  my  days  are  trances, 
94 


TO  ONE  IN  PARADISE. 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  dark  eye  glances, 

And  where  thy  footstep  gleams,- 
In  whafc  ethereal  dances, 

By  what  eternal  streams. 


95 


TO  F  -  S.  S.  0  —  D. 

(MRS.   FRANCES  S.    OSGOOD.) 

Published  in  1840.  In  the  Life  of  Poe,  prefixed  to  this 
volume,  will  be  found  some  allusion  to  this  very  lovely  and 
talented  lady. 


woulJst  be  loved  ?     Then  let  thy  heart 
From  its  present  pathway  part  not  ! 
Being  everything  which  now  thou  art 

Be  nothing  which  thou  art  not. 
So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways, 
Thy  grace,  thy  more  than  beauty, 
Shall  be  an  endless  theme  of  praise^ 
And  love  —  a  simple  duty. 


96 


THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA. 

This  poem  was  originally  entitled  "  The  Doomed  City.'* 

O  !  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 
Far  do\vn  within  the  dim  West,  [the  best 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst  and 
Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not !) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town ; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently — 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free- 
Up  domes — up  spires — up  kindly 
Up  fanes — up  Babylon-like  walls — 
Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 

Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers — 
97 


18  TEE  CITY  OF  T&E  SEA. 

Up  many  and  many  a  marvelous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 

Resignedly,  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  thert 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air ; 

While,  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  townp 

Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves5 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye, — 

Not  the  gayly-jeweled  dead 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed ; 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas ! 

Along  the  wilderness  of  glass  ; 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea ; 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been 

On  scenes  less  hideously  serene. 

But  lo !  a  stir  is  in  the  air ! 
The  wave — there  is  a  movement  there! 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide, — 
And  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven. 


THE  CITT  OF  THE  SEA. 

The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow. 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low; 
And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans, 
Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 


SILENCE 

This  Bonet  appeared  in  the  May  number  of  the  Gentleman** 
Magazine.  It  is  particularly  noticeable  for  containing  the  germ 
idea  of  "  The  Raven,"  in  the  refrain  "  No  More." 


are  some   qualities — some   incorporate 
things — 

That  have  a  double  life,  which  thus  is  made 
A  type  of  that  twin  entity  which  springs 

From  matter  and  light,  evinced  in  solid  and  shade. 
There  is  a  two-fold  Silence — sea  and  shore — 

Body  and  soul.     One  dwells  in  lonely  places, 

Newly  with  grass  o'ergrown ;  some  solemn  gracesj 
Some  human  memories,  and  tearful  lore, 
Render  him  terrorless :  his  name's  "  No  More." 
He  is  the  corporate  Silence :  dread  him  not ! 

No  power  hath  he  of  evil  in  himself ; 
But  should  some  urgent  fate  (untimely  lot !) 

Bring  thee  to  meet  his  shadow  (nameless  elf. 
That  haunteth  the  lone  regions  where  hath  trod 
No  foot  of  man),  commend  thyself  to  God  I 


100 


THE  SLEEPER. 

T  midnight,  in  the  month  of  June, 
I  stand  beneath  the  mystic  moon. 
An  opiate  vapor,  dewy,  dim, 
Exhales  from  out  her  golden  rim, 
And,  softly  dripping,  drop  by  drop, 
Upon  the  quiet  mountain  top, 
Steals  drowsily  and  musically 
Into  the  universal  valley. 
The  rosemary  nods  upon  the  grare  ; 
The  lily  lolls  upon  the  wave ; 
Wrapping  the  frog  about  its  breast, 
The  ruin  moulders  into  rest ; 
Looking  like  Lethe,  see  !  the  lake 
A  conscious  slumber  seems  to  take, 
And  would  not,  for  the  world,  awake. 
All  Beauty  sleeps !  And  lo !  where  liee 
(Her  casement  open  to  the  skies) 
Irene,  with  her  Destinies ! 
Oh,  lady  bright !  can  it  be  right — 
This  window  open  to  the  night  ? 
The  wanton  airs,  from  the  tree-top, 
Laughingly  through  the  lattice  drop,— • 
The  bodiless  airs,  a  wizard  rout, 

Flit  through  thy  chamber  in  and  out, 
101 


102  THE  SLEEPER. 

And  wave  the  cur  tarn  can  op j 
So  fitfully — so  fearfully — 
Above  the  closed  and  fringed  lid 
'Neath  which  thy  slumb'ring  soul  lies  nid5 
That,  o'er  the  floor  and  down  the  wall, 
Like  ghosts  the  shadows  rise  and  fall  I 
Oh,  lady  dear,  hast  thou  no  fear  ? 
Why  and  what  art  thou  dreaming  here  ? 
Sure  thou  are  come  o'er  far-off  seas, 
A  wonder  to  these  garden-trees ! 
Strange  is  thy  pallor !  strange  thy  dresa  I 
Strange,  above  all,  thy  length  of  tress, 
And  this  all  solemn  silentness  1 

The  lady  sleeps !  Oh,  may  her  sleep, 
"Which  is  enduring,  so  be  deep  ! 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  secret  keep ! 
This  chamber  changed  for  one  more  holy, 
This  bed  for  one  more  melancholy, 
I  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 
Forever  with  unopened  eye, 
"While  the  dim  sheeted  ghosts  go  by  ! 

My  love,  she  sleeps !  Oh,  may  she  sleep, 

As  it  is  lasting,  so  be  deep  ! 

Soft  may  the  worms  about  her  creep  ! 

Far  in  the  forest,  dim  and  old, 

For  her  may  some  tall  vault  unfold, — - 

Some  vault  that  oft  hath  flung  its  black 

And  winged  panels  fluttering  back, 


rlHE  SLEEPER.  103 

Triumphant,  o'er  the  crested  palls 
Of  her  grand  family  funerals,— 
Some  sepulchre,  remote,  alone, 
Against  whose  portal  she  hath  thrown, 
In  childhood,  many  an  idle  stone, — 
Some  tomb  from  out  whose  sounding  door 
She  ne'er  shall  force  an  echo  more, 
Thrilling  to  think,  poor  child  of  sin  I 
It  was  the  dead  who  groaned  within- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST. 

Thi«  poem  grew  out  of  some  previous  lines  entitled  "  The 
Valley  Nis." 


it  smiled  a  silent  dell 
Where  the  people  did  not  dwell; 
They  nad  gone  unto  the  wars, 
Trusting  to  the  mild-eyed  stars, 
Nightly,  from  their  azure  towers, 
To  keep  watch  above  the  flowers, 
In  the  midst  of  which  all  day 
The  red  sunlight  lazily  lay. 
Now  each  visitor  shall  confess 
The  sad  valley's  restlessness. 
Nothing  there  is  motionless,  — 
Nothing  save  the  airs  that  brood 
Over  the  magic  solitude. 
Ah,  by  no  wind  are  stirred  those  treed 
That  palpitate  like  the  chill  seas 
Around  the  misty  Hebrides  ! 
Ah,  by  no  wind  these  clouds  are  driven 
That  rustle  through  the  unquiet  Heaven 
Uneasily,  from  morn  till  even, 
Over  the  violets  there  that  lie 

In  myriad  types  of  the  human  eye,-* 
104 


THE  VALLEY  OF  UNREST.  ICi 

Over  the  lilies  there  that  wave 

And  weep  about  a  nameless  grave ! 

They  wave: — -from  out  their  fragrant  tops 

Eternal  dews  come  down  in  drops, 

They  weep  : — from  off  their  delicate  stem* 

Perennial  tears  descend  in  gems. 


A  DREAM  WITHIN  A   DREAM. 


this  kiss  upon  the  brow! 
And,  in  parting  from  you  now, 
Thus  much  let  me  avow  : 
You  are  not  wrong,  who  deem 
That  my  days  have  been  a  dream  • 
Yet  if  Hope  has  flown  away 
In  a  night,  or  in  a  day, 
In  a  vision,  or  in  none, 
Is  it  therefore  the  less  gone  f 
All  that  we  see  or  seem 
Is  but  a  dream  within  a  dream. 

I  stand  amid  the  roar 
Of  a  surf  -tormented  shore, 
And  I  hold  within  my  hand 
Grains  of  the  golden  sand  ; 
How  few  !  yet  how  they  creep 
Through  my  fingers  to  the  deep, 
While  I  weep,  —  while  I  weep  ! 
Oh,  God  !  can  I  not  grasp 
Them  with  a  tighter  clasp  ? 
Oh,  God  !  can  I  not  save 
One  from  the  pitiless  wave  ? 
Is  all  that  we  see  or  seem 

But  a  dream  within  a  dream  ! 
106 


DREAM-LAND. 

These  singularly  elegant  verses  are  full  of  floating  reminis- 
cences of  previous  writings  from  his  own  pen. 


Y  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
"Were  an  Ediolon,  named  NIGHT, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  reached  these  lands  but  newly, 
From  an  ultimate  dim  Thule, — 
From  a  wild  weird  clime  that  lieth,  sublime, 
Out  of  SPACE — out  of  TIME. 

Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods, 
And  chasms,  and  caves,  and  Titan  woods. 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover 
From  the  dews  that  drip  all  over ; 
Mountains  toppling  evermore 
Into  seas  without  a  shore ; 
Seas  that  restlessly  aspire, 
Surging,  unto  skies  of  fire  ; 
Lakes  that  endlessly  outspread 
Their  lone  waters — lone  and  dead, 
Their  still  waters — still  and  chilly 

With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily. 
107 


108  DREAM-LAND. 

By  the  lakes  that  thus  outspread 
Tiieir  lone  waters,  lone  and  dread, — 
Their  sad  waters,  sad  and  chilly 
With  the  snows  of  the  lolling  lily, — 
By  the  mountains — near  the  river 
Murmuring  lowly,  murmuring  ever, — 
By  the  gray  woods, — by  the  swamp 
Where  the  toad  and  the  newt  encamp,— 
By  the  dismal  tarns  and  pools, 
Where  dwell  the  Ghouls, — 
By  each  spot  the  most  unholy,— 
In  each  nook  most  melancholy, — 
There  the  traveler  meets  aghast 
Sheeted  Memories  of  the  Past, — 
Shrouded  forms  that  start  and  sigh 
As  they  pass  the  wanderer  by, — 
White-robed  forms  of  friends  long  given 
In  agony,  to  the  Earth, — and  Heaven. 

For  the  heart  whose  woes  are  legion 
'Tis  a  peaceful,  soothing  region, — 
For  the  spirit  that  walks  in  shadow 
'Tis — oh,  'tis  an  Eldorado ! 
But  the  traveler,  traveling  through  it, 
May  not — dare  not — openly  view  it ; 
.Never  its  mysteries  are  exposed 
To  the  weak  human  eye  unclosed ; 
80  wills  its  Kings,  who  hath  forbid 
The  uplifting  of  the  fringed  lid ; 
And  thus  the  sad  Soul  that  here  passes 


DREAM-LAND.  10« 

Beholds  it  but  through  darkened  glasses. 
By  a  route  obscure  and  lonely, 
Haunted  by  ill  angels  only, 
"Where  an  Eidolon,  named  NIGHT, 
On  a  black  throne  reigns  upright, 
I  have  wandered  home  but  newly 
From  this  ultimate  dim  Thule. 


TO   ZANTE. 

Written  soon  after  1827. 


isle,  that  from  the  fairest  of  all  flowers, 
Thy  gentlest  of  all  gentle  names  dost  take  ! 
How  many  memories  of  what  radiant  hours 

At  sight  of  thee  and  thine  at  once  awake  ! 
How  many  scenes  of  what  departed  bliss  ! 

How  many  thoughts  of  what  entombed  hopes ! 
How  many  visions  of  a  maiden  that  is 

No  more — no  more  upon  thy  verdant  slopes  ! 
No  more  !  Alas,  that  magical  sad  sound      [more, — 

Transforming  all !    Thy  charms  shall  please  no 
Thy  memory  no  more  !    Accursed  ground 

Henceforth  I  hold  thy  flower-enameled  shore, 
Oh,  hyacinthine  isle !     Oh,  purple  Zante  ! 
"  Isola  d'oro !  Fior  di  Levante  1 " 


110 


EULALIE. 

This  poem  appeared  in  Grahams  Magazine,  in  1845.  It  is  a 
very  singular  coincidence  that  this  unusual  name  "  Eulalie,"  is 
often  repeated  in  a  story  which  followed  immediately  after 
Albert  Pike's  "  Isadore,"  in  the  Mirror.  What  is  still  more 
strange,  is  that  Poe  had  not  written  any  poetry  for  years,  and 
yet  in  the  July  after  the  appearance  of  Pike's  poem,  he  wrote 
"Eulalie" — which  in  many  ways,  closely  resembles,  if  it  does 
not  imitate  that  Poem.  For  instance  Pike  wrote 

Thy  face, 


"Which  thou  didst  lovingly  upturn  with 
Pure  and  trustful  gaze." 

While  in  Poe,  we  read, 

Dear  Eulalie,  upturns  her  matron  eyes." 

While  in  both  poems,  the  "  gaze"  is  upturned  to  the  moon. 
There  are  several  minor  points  of  likeness  in  the  poems. 


DWELT  alone 

In  a  world  of  moan, 
And  my  soul  was  a  stagnant  tide, 
Till  the  fair  and  gentle  Eulalie  became  my  blushing 

bride, — 

Till  the  yellow-haired  young  Eulalie  became  my 
smiling  bride. 

Ah,  less — -less  bright 

The  stars  of  the  night 
111 


113  EULALIE. 

Than  the  eyes  of  the  \  adi«.!\?-  girl  ; 
And  never  a  flake 
That  the  vapor  can  make 
With  the  moon-tints  of  purple  and  pearl, 
Can  vie  with  the  modest  Eulalie's  most  unregarded 

oarl,- 

Can  compare  with  the  bright-eyed  Eulalie's  most 
humble  and  careless  curl. 

Now  Doubt — now  Pain 
Corne  never  again, 
For  her  soul  gives  me  sigh  for  sigh. 
And  all  day  long 
Shines  bright  and  strong, 
Astarte  within  the  sky, 
"While  ever  to  her  dear  Eulalie  upturns  her  matron 

eye,— 

"While  ever  to  her  young  Eulalie  upturns  her  violet 
eye. 


"Gaily  bedight, 

A  gallant  Kniglit, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 

Had  journeyed  long. 

Singing  a  song 
In  search  of  Eldorado." 


ELDORADO. 

,AYLY  bedight, 

A  gallant  knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 
Had  journeyed  long, 
Singing  a  song, 
In  search  of  Eldorado. 

But  he  grew  old, — 
This  knight  so  bold, — 

A-nd  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 
Fell  as  he  found 
No  spot  of  ground 

That  looked  like  Eldorado. 

And,  as  his  strength 
Failed  him  at  length, 

Jle  met  a  pilgrim  Shadow. 
"  Shadow,"  said  he, 
"  Where  can  it  be — 

This  land  of  Eldorado  ? " 


"  Over  the  Mountains 

Of  the  Moon, 
113 


114 


ELDORADO, 


Down  the  Yalley  of  the  Shadow, 
Bide,  boldly  ride," 
The  Shade  replied, — 
'  If  you  seek  for  Eldorado  I" 


ISRAFEL" 

This  poem  first  appeared  in  a  little  volnme  cf  the  poet'g 
,  published  in  1831. 

Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell, 
"  Whose  heartstrings  are  a  lute.*' 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Jsrafel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell) 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above, 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon 
Blushes  with  love, — 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  leven 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiades,  even; 

Which  were  seven,) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 


*And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heartstrings  art  ?   mte,  and 
who  has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures. — 


lit  ISRAPfiL. 

That  Israfeli's  fire 
Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings,— 
The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty— 

Where  Love's  a  grown-up  God,— 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrongs 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song : 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest ! 
Merrily  live,  and  long  ! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  loves 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute  : 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  tkine ;  but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours : 
Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers, 


ISRAFEL.  117 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 


If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israf  el 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody,  — 
"While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 


FOR  ANNIE- 

This  was  addressed  to  a  lady,  full  of  all  virtues  and  gentl 
ness— who  had  evinced  a  sister's  affection  for  the  poet  r.i 
his  household. 


/If  HANK  Heaven !  the  crises — 

The  danger — is  past, 
And  the  lingering  illness 

Is  over  at  last, — 
And  the  fever  called  "  Living 

Is  conquered  at  last. 

Sadly,  I  know, 

I  am  shorn  of  my  strength, 
And  no  muscle  I  move 

As  I  lie  at  full  length ; 
But  no  matter ! — I  feel 

I  am  better  at  length. 

And  I  rest  so  composed 

Now,  in  my  bed. 
That  any  beholder 

Might  fancy  me  dead, — 
Might  start  at  beholding  me, 

Thinking  me  dead. 
118 


THANK  HEAVEN,  THE  CRISIS,  THE  DANGER  IS  PAST. 


FOR  ANNIE.  li 

The  moaning  and  groaning — 

The  signing  and  sobbing — 
Are  quieted  now, 

With  that  horrible  throbbing 
At  heart :— ah,  that  horrible, 

Horrible  throbbing ! 

The  sickness — the  nausea — 

The  pitiless  pain — 
Have  ceased,  with  the  fever 

That  maddened  my  brain, — 
With  the  fever  called  "  Living  " 

That  burned  in  my  brain. 

And  oh  !  of  all  tortures, 

That  torture  the  worst 
Has  abated — the  terrible 

Torture  of  thirst 
For  the  napthaline  river 

Of  Passion  accurst  :— 
I  have  drank  of  a  water 

That  quenches  all  thirst  *-- 

Of  a  water  that  flows, 

"With  a  lullaby  sound, 
From  a  spring  but  a  very  ffc'< 

Feet  unaei  ground, — 
Prom  a  cavern  not  very  far 

I/own  under  ground. 


120  FOR  ANNIE. 

And  ah !  let  it  never 

Be  foolishly  said 
That  my  room  it  is  gloomy, 

And  narrow  my  bed ; 
For  man  never  slept 

In  a  difficult  bed, — 
And,  to  sleep,  you  must  slumber 

In  just  such  a  bed. 

My  tantalized  spirit 
Here  blandly  reposes, 

Forgetting,  or  never 
.Regretting  its  roses, — • 

Its  old  agitations 

Of  myrtles  and  roses. 

For  new,  while  so  quietly 

Lying,  it  fancies 
A  holier  odor 

About  it,  of  pansies, — • 
A  rosemary  odor 

Commingled  with  pansies,-~ 
"With  rue  and  the  beautiful 

Puritan  pansies. 

And  so  it  lies  happily, 

Bathing  in  many 
A  dream  of  the  truth 

And  the  beauty  of  Annie,— 


FOR  ANNIE.  121 

Browned  in  a  br.tLc 

Of  the  tresses  of  Annie 

She  tenderly  kissed  me, 

She  fondly  caressed, 
And  then  I  fell  gently 

To  sleep  on  her  breast, — 
Deeply  to  sleep 

From  the  heaven  of  her  breast. 

When  the  light  was  extinguished 

She  covered  me  warm, 
And  she  prayed  to  the  angels 

To  keep  me  from  harm, — 
To  the  queen  of  the  angels 

To  shield  me  from  harm. 

And  I  lie  so  composedly, 

Now,  in  my  bed, 
(Knowing  her  love) 
And  I  rest  so  contentedly, 

Now  on  my  bed, 
(With  her  love  at  my  breast) 

That  you  fancy  me  dead, — 
That  you  shudder  to  look  at  me? 

Thinking  me  dead. 

But  my  heart  it  is  brighter 

Than  all  of  the  many 
Stars  in  the  sky, 


122 


FOR  ANNttt. 


For  it  sparkles  with  Annie, 
It  glows  with  the  light 

Of  the  love  of  my  Annie ,— 
"With  the  thought  of  the  light 

Of  the  eyes  of  my  Annie. 


TO  F 

E  LOVED,  amid  the  earnest  woes 

That  crowd  around  my  earthly  path,- 
(Drear  path,  alas  !  where  grows 
Not  even  one  lonely  rose), — 

My  soul  at  least  a  solace  hath 
In  dreams  of  thee,  and  therein  knows 
An  Eden  of  bland  repose. 

And  thus  my  memory  is  to  me 
Like  some  enchanted  far-off  isle 

In  some  tumultuous  sea, — 

Some  ocean  throbbing  far  and  free 
"With  storms, — but  where  meanwhile 

Serenest  skies  continually 

Just  o'er  that  one  bright  island  smile. 


183 


BRIDAL  BALLAD. 

/JTHE  ring  is  on  my  hand, 
^^     And  the  wreath  is  on  my  brow 
Satins  and  jewels  grand 
Are  all  at  my  command, 
And  I  am  happy  now. 

And  my  lord  he  loves  me  well ; 

But,  when  first  he  breathed  his  vow, 
I  felt  my  bosom  swell, — 
For  the  words  rang  as  a  knell, 
And  the  voice  seemed  Ms  who  fell 
In  the  battle  down  the  dell, 

And  who  is  happy  now. 

But  he  spoke  to  reassure  me, 

And  he  kissed  my  pallid  brow, 
While  a  reverie  came  o'er  me, 
And  to  the  churchyard  bore  me, 
And  I  sighed  to  liim  before  me, 
Thinking  him  dead  D'Elormie, 
"  Oh,  I  am  happy  now  !  " 

And  thus  the  .words  well  spoken, 

And  this  the  plighted  vow, 
124 


BRIDAL  BALLAD.  13d 

And,  though  my  faith  be  broken, 
And,  though  my  heart  be  broken, 
Behold  the  golden  token 

me  happy  now 


Would  to  God  I  could  awaken  ! 

For  I  dream  I  know  not  how; 
And  my  soul  is  sorely  shaken 
Lest  an  evil  step  be  taken,  — 
Lest  the  dead  who  is  forsaken 

May  not  be  happy  now. 


TO 


This  poem,  as  we  now  print  it,  appeared  in  the  edition  of 
1829.  The  stanzas  had  been  remodeled  and  excised  afterward 
— but  T.ve  deem  it  just,  to  give  them  as  they  originally  came 
from  the  hand  of  the  author.  They,  in  their  present  form,  are 
not  only  valuable  from  their  poetic  qualities,  but  they  give  us 
an  insight  into  the  author's  feelings  at  that  early  period  of  his 
life. 

!  I  care  not  that  my  earthly  lot 
Hath  little  of  earth  in  it — 
That  years  of  love  have  been  forgot 
In  the  fever  of  a  minute. 

I  heed  not  that  the  desolate 

Are  happier,  sweet,  than  I — 
But  that  you  meddle  with  my  fate, 

Who  am  a  passer-by 

It  is  not  that  my  founts  of  bliss 

Are  gushing — strange  !  with  tears — 

Or  that  the  thrill  of  a  single  kiss 
Hath  palsied  many  years. 

'Tis  not  that  the  flowers  of  twenty  springs, 

"Which  have  withered  as  they  rose, 
12  j 


TO 


Lie  dead  on  my  heartstrings 

With  the  weight  of  an  age  of  snows. 

Tis  not  that  the  grass — oh !  may  it  thrive ! 

On  my  grave  is  growing  or  grown — 
But  that,  while  I  am  dead,  yet  alive 

I  cannot  be,  lady,  alone. 


127 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

«" 

AN    UNPUBLISHED   DRAMA. 

These  portions  of  a  never- finished  drama  were  written  at  inter- 
rals  from  1831-6.  Portions  were  published,  from  time  to  time, 
in  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger.  The  main  interest  of  the 
drama  is  derived  from  its  following,  more  or  less  closely,  the 
incidents  in  the  real  tragedy  involved  in  Beauchamp's  murder 
of  Sharp,  Solicitor- General  of  Kentucky.  No  genius  could  add 
to  the  true  horrors  of  that  affair;  but  the  poet  evinced  much 
dramatic  capacity  by  seizing  the  most  telling  scenes. 

I. 

ROME.— A  Hall  in  a  Palace.    Alessandra  and  Castiglione. 

fll  LESSANDRA.    Thou  art  sad,  Castiglione. 

Castiglione.     Sad  ! — not  I. 
Oh,  I'm  the  happiest,  happiest  man  in  Home ! 
A  few  days  more,  thou  knowest,  my  Alessandra, 
Will  make  thee  mine.    Oh,  I  am  very  happy !     [irig 

Aless.    Methinks  thou  hast  a  singular  way  of  show- 
Thy  happiness  !  What  ails  thee,  cousin  of  mine  ? 
Why  didst  thou  sigh  so  deeply  ? 

Cas.     Did  I  sigh  ? 

I  was  not  conscious  of  it.     It  is  a  fashion, 
A  silly — a  most  silly  fashion  I  have 
When  I  am  very  happy.     Did  I  sigh  f        Sighing.) 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN."  129 

Aless.     Thou  didst.     Thou  art  not  well.     Thou 

hast  indulged 

Too  much  of  late,  and  I  am  vexed  to  see  it. 
Late  hours  and  wine,  Castiglione, — these 
Will  ruin  thee  !    Thou  art  alre  idy  altered, 
Thy  looks  are  haggard :  nothing  so  wears  away 
The  constitution  as  late  hours  and  wine. 

Cos.  (musing).     Nothing,  fair  cousin,  nothing,— 

even  deep  sorrow, — 
"Wears  it  away  like  evil  hours  and  wine. 
I  will  amend. 

Aless.     Do  it !  I  would  have  thee  drop 
Thy  riotous  company,  too.     Fellows  low  born 
111  suit  the  like  with  old  Di  Broglio's  heir 
And  Alessandra's  husband. 

Cas.     I  will  drop  them.  [more 

Aless.    Thou  wilt, — thou  must.   Attend  thou  also 
To  thy  dress  and  equipage.     They  are  over  plain 
For  the  lofty  rank  and  fashion  :  much  depends 
Upon  appearance. 

Cas.     I'll  see  to  it. 

Aless.     Then  see  to  it !    Pay  more  attention,  sir, 
To  a  becoming  carriage.     Much  thou  wantest 
In  dignity. 

Cas.     Much,  much  :  oh,  much  I  want 
In  proper  dignity. 

Aless.  (haughtily.)     Thou  mockestme,  sir! 

Cas.  (abstractedly).     Sweet,    little  Lalage! 

Aless.     Hoard  I  aright  ? 
I  speak  to  him, — he  speaks  of  Lalage  ! 


X30  SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN. 

Sir  Count !  (places  her  hand  on  his  shoulder)  what 

art  them  dreaming  ? 
He's  not  well !  What  ails  thee,  sir  ? 

Cos.  (starting).     Cousin !  fair  cousin ! — madam  ! 
I  crave  thy  pardon.     Indeed,  I  am  not  well ! 
Your  hand  from  off  my  shoulder,  if  you  please. 
This  air  is  most  oppressive  1    Madam,  the  Duke  ! 

(Enter  Di  Broglio^) 

Di  Broglio.     My  son,  I've  news  for  thee  ! 
Hey  !  what's  the  matter  ?  (observing  Alessandra.) 
P  the  pouts  ?    Kiss  her,  Castiglione  !    Kiss  her, 
You  dog  !  and  make  it  up,  I  say,  this  minute  ! 
I've  news  for  you  both.     Politian  is  expected 
Hourly  in  Home, — Politian,  Earl  of  Leicester  ! 
We'll  have  him  at  the  wedding.     'Tis  his  first  visit 
To  the  imperial  city. 

Aless.     What!  Politian, 
Of  Britian,  Earl  of  Leicester  ? 

Di  Brog.  The  same,  my  love. 

We'll  have  him  at  the  wedding.  A  man  quite  young 
In  years,  but  gray  in  fame.     I  have  not  seen  him, 
3$ut  Humor  speaks  of  him  as  of  a  prodigy, — 
Pre-eminent  in  arts  and  arms,  and  wealth, 
And  high  descent.    We'll  have  him  at  the  wev.Mk>g. 

Aless.     I  have  heard  much  of  this  Politian. 
Gay,  volatile,  and  giddy, — is  he  not  ? 
And  little  given  to  thinking. 

Di  Brog.     Far  from  it,  love. 
No  branch,  they  say5  of  all  philosophy 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN."  131 

So  deep —  abstruse — lie  lias  not  mastered  it. 
Learned  as  few  are  learned. 

Aless.     'Tis  very  strange  ! 
I  have  known  men  who  have  seen  Politian, 
And  sought  his  company.     They  speak  of  him 
As  of  one  who  entered  madly  into  life, 
Drinking  the  cup  of  pleasure  to  the  dregs. 

Cas.     Bidiculous  !  Now  I  have  seen  Folitian, 
And  know  him  well.   Nor  learned  nor  mirthful  he ; 
He  is  a  dreamer,  and  a  man  shut  out 
From  coirmon  passions. 

Di  Brog.     Children,  we  disagree. 
Let  us  go  forth  and  taste  the  fragrant  air 
Of  the  garden.     Did  I  dream  or  did  I  hear 
Politian  was  a  melancholy  man  \ 

II. 

ROME. — A  Lady's  Apartment,  with  a  window  open  and  looking 
into  a  garden.  Lalage,  in  deep  mourning,  reading  at  a  table 
on  which  lie  some  books  a:i  1  a  hand  mirror.  In  the  back- 
ground  Jacinta  (a  servant  maid)  leans  carelessly  upon  a  chair. 

Lilage.     Jacinta  !  is  it  thou  ? 
Jacinta  (pertly).     Yes,  ma'am ;  I'm  here. 
Lai.  I  did  not  know,  Jacinta,  you  were  in  waiting. 
Sit  down, — let  not  my  presence  trouble  you  : 
Sit  down, — for  I  am  humble,  most  humble. 
Jac.  (aside).     'Tis  time. 

(Jacinta  seats  herself  in  a  sidelong  manner  upon  the 
chair,  resting  her  elbows  upon  the  back,  and  regarding 
her  mistress  with  a  contemptuous  look,  LoiUnge  con- 
tinues to  read.} 


133  SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

Lai.     "  It  in  another  climate,  so  he  said, 
Bore  a  bright  golden  flower,  but  not  i'  this  soil !  " 

(Pauses, — tarns  over  some  leaves,  and  resumes.) 
"  No  lingering  winters  there,  nor  snow,  nor  shower ; 
But  Ocean,  ever  to  refresh  mankind. 
Breathes  the  shrill  spirit  of  the  western  wind." 
Oh,  beautiful ! — most  beautiful ! — how  like 
To  what  my  fevered  soul  doth  dream  of  Heaven  ! 
Oh,  happy  land  !  (pauses).     She  died  ! — the  maiden 

died! 

Oh,  still  more  happy  maiden,  who  couldst  die ! 
Jacinta ! 

(Jacinta  returns  no  answer,  and  Lalage  presently  resumes. ) 
Again  ! — a  similar  tale 
Told  of  a  beauteous  dame  beyond  the  sea  1 
Thus  speaking  one  Ferdinand,  in  the  words  of  the 

play : 

"  She  died  full  young  !  "  One  Bossola  answers  him: 
"  I  think  not  so  :  her  infelicity 
Seemed  to  have  years  too  many."  Ah,  luckless  lady ! 
Jacinta  I     (Still  no  answer^) 

Here's  a  far  sterner  story: 
But  like — oh,  very  like,  in  its  despair — 
To  that  Egyptian  queen,  winning  so  easily 
A  thousand  hearts, — losing  at  length  her  own. 
She  died.    Thus  endeth  the  history :  and  her  maids 
Lean  over  her  and  weep.     Two  gentle  maids, 
With  gentle  names — Eiros  and  Charmion ! 
Rainbow  and  dove  ! — Jacinta ! 

Jac.  (pettishly).     Madam  what  is  it  ? 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN"  133 

LaL     "Wilt  thou,  my  good  Jacinta,  be  so  kind 
As  go  down  in  the  library  and  bring  me 
The  Holy  Evangelists  ? 

Jac.     Pshaw !     (Exit.} 

Lai.     If  there  be  balm 

For  the  wounded  spirit  in  Gilead,  it  is  there  ! 
Dew  in  the  night-time  of  my  bitter  trouble 
Will  there  be  found :  "  dew  sweeter  far  than  that 
Which  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill." 
(Re-enter  Jacinta,  and  throws  a  volume  on  the  table.) 

Jac.     There,  ma'am,  's  the  book  !    (Aside.)     In- 
deed, she's  very  troublesome. 

Lai.  (astonished}.   What  didst  thou  say,  Jacinta  ? 
Have  I  done  ought 

To  grieve  thee  or  to  vex  thee  ?  I  am  sorry  ; 
For  thou  hast  served  me  long,  and  ever  been 
Trustworthy  and  respectful.  (Resumes  her  reading.} 

Jac.  (aside).     I  can't  believe 
She  has  any  more  jewels !  No,  no  !  She  gave  me  all ! 

Lai.     What  didst  thou  say,  Jacinta  ?    Now  I  be 

think  me. 

Thou  hast  not  spoken  lately  of  thy  wedding. 
How  fare's  good  Ugo  ? — and  when  is  it  to  be  ? 
Can  I  do  aught  ?  Is  there  no  further  aid 
Thou  needest,  Jacinta  ? 

Jac.  (aside}.     Is  there  no  further  aid  ! 
That's  meant  for  me.   I'm  sure,  madam,  you  need  not 
Be  always  throwing  those  jewels  in  my  teeth. 

Lai.     Jewels,  Jacinta  !  Now,  indeed,  Jacinta. 
I  thought  not  of  the  jewels. 


134  SCENES  FROM   "POLITIAN." 

Jac.     Oh,  perhaps  not ! 
But  then  I  might  have  sworn  it.     After  all, 
There's  Ugo  says  the  ring  is  only  paste, 
For  he's  sure  the  Count  Castiglione  never 
Would  have  given  a  real  diamond  to  such  as  you : 
And  at  the  best  I'm  certain,  madam,  you  can  not 
Have  use  for  jewels  now.  But  I  might  have  sworn  it. 

(Exit.} 

(Lalage  bursts  into  tears,  and  leans  her  head  upon  the  table- 
After  a  short  pause  raises  it. ) 

Lai.     Poor  Lalage  !     And  is  it  come  to  this ! 
Thy  servant-maid  !    But  courage  ! — 'tis  but  a  viper 
Whom  thou  hast  cherished  to  sting  thee  to  the  soul ! 

(Taking  up  the  mirror.) 

Ha !  here  at  least's  a  friend  ! — too  much  a  friend 
In  earlier  days  !^— a  friend  will  not  deceive  me. 
Fair  mirror  and  true  now  tell  me  (for  thou  canst) 
A  tale — a  pretty  tale — and  heed  thou  not, 
Though  it  be  rife  with  woe.     It  answers  me : 
It  speaks  of  sunken  eyes,  and  wasted  cheeks, 
And  Beauty  long  deceased ; — remembers  me 
Of  Joy  long  departed ;- — Hope,  the  Seraph  Hope, 
Inurned  and  in  tombed  !    Now,  in  a  tone 
Low,  sad,  and  solemn,  but  most  audible, 
Whispers  of  early  grave  untimely  yawning       [not ! 
For  ruined  maid.     Fair  mirror  and  true  !  thou  liest 
TJiou  hast  no  end  to  gain, — no  heart  to  break  ! 
Castiglione  lied,  who  said  he  loved  ! — 
Thou  true, — he  false ! — false ! — false  ! 

( While  she  speaks,  a  monk  enters  her  apartmer^ 
and  approaches  unobserved.) 


SCENES  mOM  "POLITIAN."  135 

Monk.     Refuge  thou  hast, 

Sweet  daughter,  in  Heaven.  Think  of  eternal  things ! 
Give  up  thy  soul  to  penitence,  and  pray ! 

Lai.  (arising  hurriedly}.     I  can  not  pray  !    My 

soul  is  at  war  with  God  ! 
The  frightful  sounds  of  merriment  below 
Disturb  my  senses  !    Go  ! — I  can  not  pray ! 
The  sweet  airs  from  the  garden  worry  me ! 
Thy  presence  grieves  me  !  Go !  Thy  priestly  raiment 
Fills  me  with  dread  !    Thy  ebony  crucifix 
With  horror  and  awe  ! 

Monk.     Think  of  thy  precious  soul ! 

Lai.  Think  of  my  early  days !  Think  of  my  father 
And  mother  in  Heaven !    Think  of  our  quiet  home, 
And  the  rivulet  that  ran  before  the  door ! 
Think  of  my  little  sisters  ! — think  of  them  ! 
And  think  of  me !    Think  of  my  trusting  love 
And  confidence ! — his  vows — my  ruin — think— think 
Of  my  unspeakable  misery ! — Begone  ! 
Yet  stay  !  yet  stay  ! — what  wast  thou  saidst  of  prayer 
And  penitence  ?     Didst  thou  not  speak  of  faith, 
And  vows  before  the  throne  ? 

Monk.     I  did. 

Lai.     'Tis  well. 

There  is  a  vow  were  fitting  should  be  made, — 
A  sacred  vow,  imperative  and  urgent, — 
A  solemn  vow ! 

Monk.     Daughter,  this  zeal  is  well ! 

Lai.     Father,  this  zeal  is  anything  but  well  I 
Hast  thou  a  crucifix  jit  for  this  thing  ? 


13G  SCENES  FROM   "POLITIAN." 

A  crucifix  whereon  to  register 
This  sacred  vow  ?  (He  hands  her  his  own.) 

Not  that !    Oh,  no  ! — no ! — no  !  (Shuddering.') 

Not  that !    Not  that !    I  tell  thee,  holy  man, 
Thy  raiment  and  thy  ebony  cross  affright  me! 
Stand  back  !    I  have  a  crucifix  myself  ! 
I  have  a  crucifix !    Methinks  'twere  fitting 
The  deed — the  vow — the  symbol  of  the  deed — 
And  the  deed's  register — should  tally,  father  ! 

(Draws  a  cross-handled  dagger,  and  raises  it  on  high.) 
Behold  the  cross  wherewith  a  vow  like  mine 
Is  written  in  Heaven  ! 

Monk.     Thy  words  are  madness,  daughter, 
And  speak  a  purpose  unholy.   Thy  lips  are  livid, — 
Thine  eyes  are  wild  !    Tempt  not  the  wrath  divine ! 
Pause  ere  too  late !    Oh,  be  not—  be  not  rash  ! 
Swear  not  the  oath, — oh,  swear  it  not ! 

Lai.     'Tis  sworn ! 

III. 

An  apartment  in  a  Palace.    Politian  and  Baldazzar. 

Baldazzar.     Arouse  thee,  now,  Politian ! 
Thou  must  not — nay  indeed,  indeed,  thou  shai*:  not 
Give  way  unto  these  humors.     Be  thyself ! 
Shake  off  the  idle  fancies  that  beset  thee, 
And  live,  for  now  thou  diest ! 

Politian.     Not  so,  Baldazzar  ! 
Surily  I  live. 

Bal.     Politian,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  see  thee  thus. 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN."  13? 

P&l.     Baldazzar,  it  doth  grieve  me 
To  give  thee  cause  for  grief,  my  honored  friend. 
Command  me,  sir  !  What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  1 
At  thy  behest  I  will  shake  off  that  nature 
Which  from  my  forefathers  I  did  inherit, — 
Which  with  my  mother's  milk  I  did  imbibe, — 
And  be  no  more  Politian,  but  some  other. 
Command  me,  sir ! 

Bal.     To  the  field,  then  !— to  the  field ! 
To  the  senate  or  the  field. 

Pol.     Alas !  alas  ! 

There  is  an  imp  would  follow  me  even  there ! 
There  is  an  imp  hath  followed  me  even  there  I 
There  is what  voice  was  that  ? 

Bal.     I  heard  it  not. 
I  heard  not  any  voice  except  thine  own, 
And  the  echo  of  thine  own. 

Pol.     Then  I  but  dreamed. 

Bal.     Give  not  thy  soul  to  dreams  :  the  camp—- 
the court — 

Befit  thee.     Fame  awaits  thee  !  Glory  calls  I 
And  h  r  the  trumpet-tongued  thou  wilt  not  hear. 
In  hearkening  to  imaginary  sounds 
And  phantom  voices. 

Pol.     It  is  a  phantom  voice ! 
Didst  thou  not  Lear  it  then  f 

Bal.     I  heard  it  not. 

Pol.     Thou  heardst  it  not !    Baldazzar,  speak  na 

more 
To  me,  Politian,  of  thy  camps  and  r»ourte 


138  SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

Oh,  I  am  sick,  sick,  sick,  even  unto  death, 

Of  the  hollow  and  high-sounding  vanities 

Of  the  populous  Earth  !    Bear  with  me  yet  awhile  ! 

We  have  been  boys  together, — school-fellows, — 

Arid  now  are  friends, — yet  shall  not  be  so  long : 

For  in  the  eternal  city  thou  shalt  do  me 

A  kind  and  gentle  office,  and  a  Power — 

A  Power  august,  benignant,  and  supreme — 

Shall  then  absolve  thee  of  all  further  duties 

Unto  thy  friend. 

Bal.     Thou  speakest  a  fearful  riddle 
I  will  not  understand. 

Pol.     Yet  now  as  Fate 

Approaches,  and  the  Hours  are  breathing  low, 
The  sands  of  Time  are  changed  to  golden  grains, 
And  dazzle  me,  Baldazzar.     Alas  !  alas ! 
I  can  not  die,  having  within  my  heart 
So  keen  a  relish  for  the  beautiful 
As  hath  been  kindled  within  it.     Methinks  the  air 
Is  balmier  now  than  it  was  wont  to  be. 
Rich  melodies  are  floating  in  the  winds; 
A  rarer  loveliness  bedecks  the  earth ; 
And  with  a  holier  luster  the  quiet  moon 
Sitteth  in  heaven.     Hist !  hist !  thou  canst  not  say 
Thou  nearest  not  noiv,  Baldazzar ! 

Bal.     Indeed,  I  hear  not. 

Pol.     Not  hear  it  ?     Listen,  now ! — listen ! — the 

faintest  sound, 

And  yet  the  sweetest  that  ear  ever  heard ! 
A  lady's  voice  !-  -and  sorrow  in  the  tone ! 


SCENES  FKOM  "POLITIAtf."  13d 

Baldazzar,  it  oppresses  me  like  a  spell ! 
Again  ! — again  ! — how  solemnly  it  falls 
Into  my  heart  of  hearts !    That  eloquent  voice 
Surely  I  never  heard  :  yet  it  were  well 
Had  I  'but  heard  it,  with  its  thrilling  tones, 
In  earlier  days  ? 

Bal.     I  myself  hear  it  now 
Be  still !    The  voice,  if  I  mistake  not  greatly, 
Pr.  ceeds  from  yonder  lattice, — which  you  may  sea 
Yery  plainly  through  the  window.     It  belongs, 
Does  it  not,  unto  this  palace  of  the  Duke  ? 
The  singer  is  undoubtedly  beneath 
The  roof  of  his  Excellency  ;  and  perhaps 
Is  even  that  Alessandra  of  whom  he  spake 
As  the  betrothed  of  Castiglione, 
His  son  and  heir. 

Pol.     Be  still !    It  comes  again ! 

Voice      "  And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
(very  faintly).  As  for  to  leave  me  thus, 

Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long, 
In  wealth  and  woe  among  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay  ! — say  nay  !  " 

Ba^.     The  song  is  English,  and  I  oft  have  heard  it 
In  merry  England, — never  so  plaintively : 
Hist !  hist ! — it  comes  again ! 
Voice     "  Is  it  so  strong 
(more  loudly).  As  for  to  Jeave  me  thus, 

Who  hath  loved  thee  so  long, 


140  SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

In  wealth  and  woe  among  ? 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay ! — say  nay  !  " 
Bal.     'Tis  hushed,  and  all  is  still ! 
Pol.     All  is  not  still. 
Bal.     Let  us  go  down. 
Pol.     Go  down,  Baldazzar,  go  ! 
Bal.     The   hour   is   growing  late.      The  Duke 

awaits  us : 

Thy  presence  is  expected  in  the  hall 
Below.     What  ails  thee,  Earl  Politian  ? 

Voice     "  Who  hast  loved  thee  so  long, 
(distinctly).  In  wealth  and  woe  among, 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong  ? 

Say  nay  ! — say  nay  !  " 

Bal.     Let  us  descend  ! — 'tis  time !  Politian,  give 
These  fancies  to  the  wind.     Remember,  pray, 
Your  bearing  lately  savored  much  of  rudeness 
Unto  the  Duke.     Arouse  thee !  and  remember  ! 
Pol.     Remember  ?     I  do.      Lead  on !     I  do  re- 
member. (Going.) 
Let  us  descend.     Believe  me,  I  would  give — 
Freely  would  give — the  broad  lands  of  my  earldom 
To  look  upon  the  face  hidden  by  yon  lattice. 
"  To  gaze  upon  that  veiled  face,  and  hear 
Once  more  that  silent  tongue." 

Bal.     Let  me  beg  you,  sir, 
Descend  with  me  :  the  Duke  may  be  offended. 
Let  us  go  down,  I  pray  you. 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN."  141 

Voice  (loudly).    Say  nay  ! — Say  nay  ! 

Pol.  (aside).     'Tis  strange  ! — 'tis  very  strange  ! 
Me  thought  the  voice 
Chimed  in  with  my  desires,  and  bade  me  stay. 

(Approaching  the  icindow.) 

Sweet  voice !  I  heed  thee,  and  will  surely  stay. . 
Now  be  this  Fancy,  by  Heaven,  or  be  it  Fate, 
Still  will  I  not  descend.    Baldazzar,  make 
Apology  unto  the  Duke  for  me : 
I  go  not  down  to-night. 

Bal.     Your  lordship's  pleasure. 
Shall  be  attended  to.     Good  night,  Politian. 

Pol.     Good-night,  my  friend,  good  night. 


IV. 

The  gardens  of  a  Palace — Moonlight.     Lalage  and  Politian, 

Lalage.     And  dost  thou  speak  of  love 
To  me,  Politian  ?     Dost  thou  speak  of  love 
To  Lalage  ?     Ah,  woe  ! — ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
This  mockery  is  most  cruel ! — most  cruel,  indeed ! 
Politian.     Weep  not !    Oh,  sob  not  thus  !    Thy 

bitter  tears 

Will  madden  me.     Oh,  mourn  not,  Lalage  ! 
Be  comforted  !    I  know — I  know  it  all, — • 
And  still  I  speak  of  love.     Look  at  me,  brightest, 
And  beautiful  Lalage  !    Turn  here  thine  eyes  ! 
Thou  askest  me  if  I  could  speak  of  love, 
Knowing  what  I  know,  and  seeing  what  I  have  seen 
Thou  askest  me  that ;  and  thus  I  answer  thee, — 


142  SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

Thus  on  my  bended  knee  I  answer  thee. 

eeling.} 

Sweet  Lalage,  I  love  thee — love  thee — love  thee  / 
Through  good  and  ill — through  weal  and  woe — I 

love  thee. 

Not  mother,  with  her  first-born  on  her  knee, 
Thrills  with  intenser  love  than  I  for  thee. 
Not  on  God's  altar,  in  any  time  or  clime, 
Burned  there  a  holier  fire  than  burneth  now 
Within  my  spirit  for  thee.    And  do  I  love  ? 

(Arising.') 

Even  for  thy  woes  I  love  thee ! — even  for  thy  woes  I—- 
Thy beauty  and  thy  woes. 

Lai.     Alas,  proud  Earl, 
And  dost  forget  thyself,  remembering  me  ! 
How,  in  thy  father's  halls,  among  the  maidens 
Pure  and  reproachless  of  thy  princely  line, 
Could  the  dishonored  Lalage  abide  ? 
Thy  wife,  and  with  a  tainted  memory  ? 
My  seared  and  blighted  name,  how  would  it  tally 
With  the  ancestral  honors  of  thy  house,. 
And  with  thy  glory  ? 

Pol.     Speak  not  to  me  of  glory  ! 
I  hate — I  loathe  the  name  !    I  do  abhor 
The  unsatisfactory  and  ideal  thing. 
Art  thou  not  Lalage  and  I  Politian  ? 
Do  I  not  love  ?    Art  thou  not  beautiful  ? 
What  need  we  more  ?    Ha !  glory  !  Now  speak  not 

of  it! 
By  all  I  hold  most  sacred  and  most  solemn, — • 


8GENES  FROM  "POLITIAN."  143 

By  all  my  wishes  now, — my  fears  hereafter, — 
By  all  I  scorn  on  earth  and  hope  in  heaven, — 
There  is  no  deed  I  would  more  glory  in 
Than  in  thy  cause  to  scoff  at  this  same  glory, 
And  trample  it  under  foot.     What  matters  it — 
What  matters  it,  my  fairest  and  my  best, 
That  wre  go  down  unhonored  and  forgotten 
Into  the  dust, — so  we  descend  together  ? 
Descend  together,  and  then — and  then,  perchance, — • 

Lai.     Why  dost  thoa  pause,  Politian  ? 

Pol.     And  then,  perchance, 
Arise  together,  Lalage,  and  roam 
The  starry  and  quiet  dwelling  of  the  blest, 
And  still 

Lai.     Why  dost  thou  pause,  Politian  ? 

Pol.     And  still  together — together. 

Lai.     Now,  Earl  of  Leicester, 
Thou  lovest  me !    And  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  feel  thou  lovest  me  truly. 

Pol.     Oh,  Lalage  !      (Throwing  himself  upon  his  knee.} 
And  lovest  thou  me  ? 

Lai.     Hist !  hush  !     Within  the  gloom 
Of  yonder  trees  methought  a  figure  passed, — • 
A  spectral  figure,  solemn,  and  slow,  and  noiseless,—. 
Like  the  grim  shadow  Conscience,  solemn  and  noise- 
less.  (  Walks  across  and  returns.  \ 

I  was  mistaken :  'twas  but  a  giant  bough 
Stirred  by  the  autumn  wind.     Politian  ! 

Pol.    My  Lalage — my  love !  why  art  thou  moved  ? 
Why  dost  thou  turn  so  pale  I    Not  Conscience'  self, 


144  SCENES  frxOM  "POLITIAN." 

Far  less  a  shadow,  which  thou  likenest  to  it, 
Should  shake  the  firm  spirit  thus.     But  the  night 

wind 

Is  chilly, — and  these  melancholy  boughs 
Throw  over  all  things  a  gloom. 

Lai.     Politian ! 

Thou  speakest  to  me  of  love.   Knowest  thou  the  land 
With  which   all   tongues  are   busy, — a   land   new 

found, — 

Miraculously  found  by  one  of  Genoa, — 
A  thousand  leagues  within  the  golden  west  ? 
A  fairy  land  of  flowers,  and  fruit,  and  sunshine, 
And  crystal  lakes,  and  over-arching  forests, 
And  mountains,  around  whose  towering  summits  the 

winds 

Of  Heaven  untrammeled  flow, — with  air  to  breathe 
Is  Happiness  now,  and  will  be  Freedom  hereafter, 
In  days  that  are  to  come  ? 

Pol.     Oh,  wilt  thou — wilt  thou 
Fly  to  that  Paradise  ?    My  Lalage,  wilt  thou 
Fly  thither  with  me  ?  There  Cpre  shall  be  forgotten. 
And  Sorrow  shall  be  no  more,  and  Eros  be  all. 
And  life  shall  then  be  mine ;  for  I  will  live 
For  thee,  and  in  thine  eyes;  and  thou  shalt  be 
No  more  a  mourner,  but  the  radiant  Joys 
Shall  wait  upon  thee,  and  the  angel  Hope 
Attend  thee  ever ;  and  I  will  kneel  to  thee 
And  wrorship  thee,  and  call  thee  my  beloved, — 
My  own,  my  beautiful,  my  love,  my  wife, 
My  all !     Oh,  wilt  thou — wilt  thou,  Lalage, 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN."  147 

Fly  thither  with  me  ? 

Lai.     A  deed  is  to  be  done  °. 
Castiglione  lives ! 

Pol.     And  he  shall  die  !     (Exit.) 

Lai.  (after  a  paused).     And — he — shall — die  ! — 
Alas  !     Castiglione  die  !    Who  spoke  the  words  1 
Where  am  I  ?    What  was  it  he  said  ?    Politian  ! 
Thou  art  not  gone  ! — thou  are  not  gone,  Politian  ! 
I  feel  thou  art  not  gone, — yet  dare  not  look, 
Lest  I  beholJ  thee  not !    Thou  couldst  not  go 
With  those  words  upon  thy  lips  !  Oh,  speak  to  me  ! 
And  let  me  hear  thy  voice ! — one  word — one  word 
To  say  thou  art  not  gone ! — one  little  sentence 
To  say  how  thou  dost  scorn—  how  thou  dost  hate 
My  womanly  weakness !  Ha  !  ha  !  thou  art  not  gone ! 
Oh,  speak  to  me !    I  knew  thou  wouldst  not  go  ! 
I  knew  thou  wouldst  not,  couldst  n^i,  durst  not  go  ! 
Villain,  thou  art  not  gone !    Thou  mockest  me  ! 

And  thus  1  clutch  thee — thus  ! He  is  gone  ! — 

he  is  gone  ! — 
Gone, — gone !    Where  am  I  ?    'Tis  well ! — 'tis  very 

well! 

So  that  the  blade  be  keen — the  blow  be  sure  ! 
'Tis  well ! — 'tis  very  well !    Alas  !  alas  ! 

Y. 

The  suburbs.     Politian  alone. 
Politian.    This  weakness  grows  upon  me.     I  am 

faint, 
And  much  I  fear  me  ill.     It  will  not  do 


148  SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

To  die  ere  I  have  lived !    Stay — stay  thy  hand, 
Oh,  Azrael,  yet  a  while  !    Prince  of  the  Powers 
Of  Darkness  and  the  Tomb,  oh  pity  me  ! 
Oh,  pity  me  ?  Let  me  not  perish  now 
In  the  budding  of  my  Paradisal  Hope! 
Give  me  to  live  yet — yet  a  little  while. 
'Tis  1  who  pray  for  life ! — I  who  so  late 
Demanded  but  to  die  !    "What  sayest  the  Count  ? 
Enter  Baldazzar. 

Baldazzar.    That  knowing  no  cause  of  quarrel  or 

feud 

Between  the  Earl  Politian  and  himself, 
He  doth  decline  your  cartel. 

Pol.      What  didst  thou  say  ? 

What  answer  was  it  you  brought  me,  good  Baldazzar  ? 
With  what  excessive  fragrance  the  zephyr  comes 
Laden  from  yonder  bowers  !    A  fairer  day, 
Or  one  more  worthy  Italy,  methinks 
No  mortal  eyes  have  seen  !     What  said  the  Count  ? 

Bal.     That  he,  Castiglione,  not  being  aware 
Of  any  feud  existing,  or  any  cause 
Of  quarrel  between  your  lordship  and  himself, 
Can  not  accept  the  challenge. 

Pol.     It  is  most  true  ! 

All  this  is  very  true.     When  saw  you,  sir, — 
When  saw  you  nowr,  Baldazzar,  in  the  frigid 
Ungenial  Britain,  which  we  left  so  lately, 
A  heaven  so  calm  as  this  ? — so  utterly  free 
From  the  evil  taint  of  clouds  ?    And  he  did  say? 

Bal.    No  more,  my  lord,  than  I  have  told  you,  sir. 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN."  147 

The  Count  Castiglione  will  not  fight, 
Having  no  cause  of  quarrel. 

Pol.     Now  this  is  true  : 

All  very  true.     Thou  art  my  friend,  Baldazzar, 
And  I  have  not  forgotten  it.     'Thou't  do  me 
A  piece  of  service.     Wilt  tlunTgo  back  and  say 
Unto  this  man,  that  I,  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
Hold  him  a  villain  ?     Thus  much,  I  prythee,  say 
Unto  the  Count.     It  is  exceeding  just 
He  should  have  cause  for  quarrel. 

Bal.     My  lord  ! — my  friend  ! — 

Pol.  (aside).   'Tis  he  !  He  comes  himself  ! 
(Aloud).     Thou  reasonest  well.  [sage. 

I  know  what  thou  would st  say, — not  sent  the  mes- 
Well,  I  will  think  of  it :  I  will  not  send  it ! 
Now,  prithee,  leave  me.    Hither  doth  come  a  person 
With  whom  affairs  of  a  most  private  nature 
I  would  adjust. 

Bal.     I  go.     To-morrow  we  meet, 
Do  we  not,  at  the  Yatican  ? 

Pol.     At  the  Yatican.  (Exit  Bal.) 

(Enter  Castiglione.) 

Castiglione.     The  Earl  of  Leicester  here  ? 

Pol.     I  am  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  and  thou  seest. 
Dost  thou  not,  that  I  am  here. 

Cas.     My  lord,  some  strange — 
Some  singular  mistake — misunderstanding — 
Hath  without  doubt  arisen.     Thou  hast  been  urged 
Thereby,  in  heat  of  anger,  to  address 
Some  words  most  unaccountable,  in  writing, 


148  SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN." 

To  me,  Castiglione, — the  bearer  being 

Baldazzar,  Duke  of  Surrey.     I  am  aware 

Of  nothing  which  might  warrant  thce  in  this  thing 

Having  given  thee  no  offence.     Ha  !  am  I  right  ? 

'Twas  a  mistake,  undoubtedly.     We  all 

Do  err  at  times. 

Pol.     Draw,  villain,  and  prate  no  more  ! 

Cas.     Ha  !  draw  !  and  villain  ! 
Have  at  thee,  then,  at  once,  proud  Earl !    (Draws.} 

Pol.  (drawing).     Thus  to  the  expiatory  tomb, 
Untimely  sepulchre,  I  do  devote  thee, 
In  the  name  of  Lalage  ! 

Cas.  (letting  fall  Jiis  sword,  and  recoiling  to  the  extremity  of 
the  stage.} 

Of  Lalage ! 

Hold  off — thy  sacred  hand  !     Avaunt,  I  say  1 
Avaunt !     I  will  not  fight  thee  !  Indeed,  I  dare  not, 
Pol.     Thou  wilt  not  fight  with  me,  didst  say,  Sir 

Count  ? 

Shall  I  be  baffled  thus  ?    Now,  this  is  well  ! 
Didst  say  thou  darest  not  ?    Ha  ! 
Cas.     I  dare  not ! — dare  not ! 
Hold  off  thy  hand  !    With  that  beloved  name 
So  fresh  upon  thy  lips  I  will  not  fight  thee  ! 
I  can  not ! — dare  not ! 

Pol.     Now,  by  my  halidom, 
I  do  believe  thee  !    Coward,  I  do  believe  thee ! 
Cas.     Ha  ! — coward  !    This  may  not  be  ! 
(Clutches  his  sword,  and  staggers  toward  Politian,  lut  his  pur- 
pose is  changed  before  reaching  him,  and  he  falls  upon  his 
knee  at  the  feet  of  the  Earl.) 


SCENES  FROM  "POLITIAN."  149 

Alas  !  alas  !  my  lord,  it  is — it  is — most  true  ! 

In  such  a  cause  I  am  the  veriest  coward.  Oh,  pity  me ! 

Pol.  (greatly  softened).     Alas  !    I  do  !  Indeed,  I 
pity  thee  ! 

Cas.      And  Lai  age  — — 

Pol.     Scoundrel!    Arise,  and  die  ! 

Cas.     It  needeth   not    be — thus — thus — oh,  let 

me  die 

Thus  on  my  bended  knee.     It  were  most  fitting 
That  in  this  deep  humiliation  I  perish. 
For  in  the  fight  I  will  not  raise  a  hand 
Against  thee,  Earl  of  Leicester.   Strike  thou  home  ! 

(Baring  his  botom.) 

Here  is  no  let  or  hinderance  to  thy  weapon ! 
Strike  home  !     I  will  not  fight  thee  ! 

Pol.     Now  's  Death  and  Hell ! 
Am  I  not — am  I  not  sorely — greviously  tempted 
To  take  thee  at  thy  word  ?     But  mark  me,  sir  : 
Think  not  to  fly  me  thus  !    Do  thou  prepare 
For  public  insult  in  the  streets,  before 
The  eyes  of  the  citizens.     I'll  follow  thee, — 
Like  an  avenging  spirit  I'll  follow  thee 
Even  unto  death.  Before  those  whom  thou  lovest — 
Before  all  Rome  I'll  taunt  thee,  villain  ! — I'll  taunt 
thee,  [me  ? 

Dost  hear  ?    with  cowardice  !    Thou  wilt  not  fight 
Thou  liest !     Thou  shall  !  (Exit.) 

Cas.     Now,  this  deed  is  just! 
Most  righteous,  and  most  just,  avenging  Heaven. 


J3ocm0  tDntten  in  fjotttl); 


SONNET.-TO   SCIENCE. 

CjCIENCE!  True  daughter  of  Old  Time  thou  art! 
Who  alterest  all  things  with  thy  peering  eyes. 
Why  preyest  thou  thus  upon  the  poet's  heart, 

Vulture,  whose  wings  are  dull  realities  ? 
How  should  he  love  thee  ?  or  how  deem  thee  wise, 

"Who  would st  not  leave  him  in  his  wandering 
To  seek  for  treasure  in  the  jeweled  skies, 

Albeit  he  soared  with  an  undaunted  wing  ? 
Hast  thou  not  dragged  Diana  from  her  car  ? 

And  driven  the  Hamadryad  from  the  wood 
To  seek  a  shelter  in  some  happier  star  ? 

Hast  thou  not  torn  the  Naiad  from  her  flood, 
The  Elfin  from  the  green  grass,  and  from  me 
The  summer  dream  beneath  the  tamarind  tree  ? 


*  Private  reasons — some  of  which  have  reference  to  the  sin  of 
plagiarism,  and  others  to  the  date  of  Tennyson's  first  poems — 
have  induced  me,  after  some  hesitation,  to  republish  these,  the 
crude  compositions  of  my  earliest  boyhood.  They  are  printed 
verbatim,  without  alteration  from  the  original  edition,  the  date 
of  which  is  too  remote  to  be  judiciously  acknowledged. 

E.  A.  P 

150 


AL  AARAAF * 

This  poem  first  appeared  in  a  small  volume  issue  by  the  poet 
at  Baltimore  in  1829.  The  place  "  Al  Aaraaf,"  is  designated  by 
the  Mohammedans,  as  an  abode  wherein  a  mild  system  of  pur- 
gatory is  instituted  for  the  benefit  of  those,  who,  though  too 
good  for  hell,  are  not  fitted  for  heaven — 

"  Apart  from  heaven's  eternity — and  yet  how  far  from  hell!" 

This  poem  of  "  Al  Aaraaf,"  abounds  in  happy  and  melodious 
passages,  and  has  never  yet  received  its  due  meed  of  praise; 
some  portions  of  the  lyrical  intermedial  chant  are  exquisitely 
and  musically  onomatopocial  in  construction 

PAET   I. 


,  nothing  earthly  save  the  ray 

(Thrown  back  from  flowers)  of  Beauty  s  eye, 
As  in  those  gardens  where  the  day 
Springs  from  the  gems  of  Circassy — 
Oh,  nothing  earthly  save  the  thrill 
Of  melody  in  woodland  rill— 
Or  (music  of  the  passion-hearted) 
Joy's  voice  so  peacefully  departed 
That  like  the  murmur  in  the  shell, 


*A  star  was  discovered  by  Tycho  Brahe,  which  appeared  sud- 
denly in  the  heavens;  attained,  in  a  few  days,  a  brilliancy  sur- 
passing that  of  Jupiter;  then  as  suddenly  disappeared,  and  has 
never  been  seen  since. 

151 


152  AL  AARAAF. 

Its  echo  dwelleth  and  will  dwell — 
Oh,  nothing  of  the  dross  of  ours — 
Yet  all  the  Beauty — all  the  flowers 
That  list  our  Love,  and  deck  our  bowerB 
Adorn  yon  world  afar,  afar 
The  wandering  star. 

'Twas  a  sweet  time  for  Nesace — for  they 
Her  world  lay  lolling  on  the  golden  air, 
Near  four  bright  suns  —a  temporary  rest — 
An  oasis  in  desert  of  the  blest. 
Away — away — 'mid  seas  of  rays  that  roll 
Empyrean  splendor  o'er  the  unchained  soul—- 
The soul  that  scarce  (the  billows  are  so  dense) 
Can  struggle  to  its  destin'd  eminence — 
To  distant  spheres,  from  time  to  time,  she  rode, 
And  late  to  ours,  the  f avor'd  one  of  God, 
But  now  the  ruler  of  an  anchor 'd  realm, 
She  throws  aside  the  sceptre — leaves  the  helm, 
And,  amid  incense  and  high  spiritual  hymns, 
Laves  in  quadruple  light  her  angel  limbs. 

Now  happiest,  loveliest  in  yon  lovely  Earth, 
Whence  sprang  the  "  Idea  of  Beauty  "  into  birth, 
(Falling  in  wreaths  thro'  many  a  startled  star, 
Like  woman's  hair  'mid  pearls,  until,  afar, 
It  lit  on  hills  Achaian,  and  there  dwelt) 
She  look'd  into  Infinity — and  knelt. 
Rich  clouds,  for  canopies,  about  her  curled — 
Fit  emblems  of  the  model  of  her  world — 


AL  AARAAF.  153 

^een  but  in  beauty— not  impeding  sight 

tf  other  beauty  glittering  thro'  the  light — 
wreath  that  twined  each  starry  form  around. 
And  all  the  opal'd  air  in  color  bound. 

All  hurriedly  she  knelt  upon  a  bed 
Of  flowers :  of  lilies  such  as  rear'd  the  head 
On  the  fair  Capo  Deucato,*  and  sprang 
So  eagerly  around  about  to  hang 
Upon  the  flying  footsteps  of — deep  pride — 
Of  her  who  lov'd  a  mortal — and  so  died.f 
The  Sephalica,  budding  with  young  bees, 
Uprear'd  its  purple  stem  around  her  knees : 
And  gemmy  flower,  of  Trebizond  misnam'dj: — 
Inmate  of  highest  stars,  where  erst  it  sham'd 
All  other  loveliness :  its  honied  dew 
(The  fabled  nectar  that  the  heathen  knew) 
Deliriously  sweet,  was  dropp'd  from  Heaven, 
And  fell  on  gardens  of  the  unforgiven 
In  Trebizond — and  on  a  sunny  flower 
So  like  its  own  above,  that  to  this  hour 
It  still  remaineth,  torturing  the  bee 
With  madness,  and  unwonted  reverie : 
In  Heaven,  and  all  its  environs,  the  leaf 
And  blossom  of  the  fairy  plant,  in  grief 
Disconsolate  linger, — grief  that  hangs  her  head 


*On  Santa  Maura — olhn  Deucadia. 
f  Sappho. 

%  This  flower  is  much  noticed  by  LewenhoecK  ana  Tournefort. 
The  bee,  feeding  upon  its  blossom,  becomes  intoxicated. 


154  AL  AARAAF. 

Repenting  follies  tluit  full  long  have  fled, 
Heaving  her  white  breast  to  the  balmy  air, 
Like  guilty  beauty,  chasten'd,  and  more  fair : 
Nyctanthes  too,  as  sacred  as  the  light 
She  fears  to  perfume,  perfuming  the  night : 
And  Clytia*  pondering  between  many  a  sun, 
While  pettish  tears  adown  her  petals  run : 
And  that  aspiring  flower  that  sprang  on  Earth 
And  died,  ere  scarce  exalted  into  birth,f 
Bursting  its  odorous  heart  in  spirit  to  wing 
Its  way  to  Heaven,  from  garden  of  a  king : 
And  Valesnerian  lotus  {  thither  flown 
From  struggling  with  the  waters  of  the  Hhone : 
And  thy  most  lovely  purple  perfume,  Zante  !  § 
Jsola  d'oro  !     Fior  di  Levante  ! 
And  the  Nelumbo  bud  II  that  floats  forever 


*  Clytia, — the  Chrysanthemum  Peruvianum,  or,  to  employ  a 
better  known  term,  the  Turnsol, — which  turns  continually  to- 
ward the  sun,  covers  itself,  like  Peru,  the  country  from  •which 
it  comes,  with  dewy  clouds  which  cool  and  refresh  its  flowers 
during  the  most  violent  heat  of  the  day. — B  de  St.  Pierre. 

f  There  is  cultivated  in  the  king's  garden  at  Paris  a  species  of 
serpentine  aloes  without  prickles,  whose  large  and  beautiful 
flower  exhales  a  strong  odor  of  the  vanilla,  during  the  time  of 
its  expan-don,  which  is  very  short.  It  does  not  blow  till  toward 
the  month  of  July.  You  then  perceive  it  gradually  open  its 
petals,  expand  them,  fade,  and  die. — St.  Pierre. 

\  There  is  found,  in  the  Rhone,  a  beautiful  lily  of  the  Valis- 
nerian  kind.  Its  stem  will  stretch  to  the  length  of  three  or 
four  feet,  thus  preserving  its  head  above  water  in  the  swellings 
of  the  river. 

§  The  hyacinth. 

|  It  is  a  fiction  of  the  Indians,  that  Cupid  was  first  seen 
floating  in  one  of  these  down  the  river  Ganges,  and  that  he  still 
loves  the  cradle  of  his  childhood. 


AL  AAitAAP.  155 

With  Indian  Cupid  down  the  holy  river — 
Fair  flowers,  and  fairy  !  to  whose  care  is  given 
To   bear   the    Goddess'  song   in   odors  up  to 
Heaven :  * 

'-  Spirit !  that  dwellest  where, 

In  the  deep  sky, 
The  terrible  and  fair, 

In  beauty  vie  ! 
Beyond  the  line  of  blue — 

The  boundary  of  the  star 
Which  tnrneth  at  the  view 

Of  thy  barrier  and  thy  bar — 
Of  the  barrier  overgone 

By  the  comets  who  were  cast 
From  their  prid  ^  and  from  their  throno, 

To  be  drudges  till  the  last — 
To  be  carriers  of  fire 

(The  red  fire  of  their  heart) 
With  speed  that  may  not  tire 

And  with  pain  that  shall  not  part—- 
Who livest — that  we  know — 

In  Eternity — we  feel — 
But  the  shadow  of  whose  brow 

What  spirit  shall  reveal  ? 
Thro'  the  beings  whom  thy  Nesace, 

Thy  messenger  hath  known 
Have  dream'd  for  thy  Infinity 


*  And  golden  vials,  full  of  odors,  which  are  the  prefers  of 
the  saints.— Rev.  St.  John. 


156  AL  AARAAP. 

A  model  of  their  own.* 
Thy  will  i.i  done,  oh  God ! 

The  star  hath  ridden  high 
Thro'  many  a  tempest,  but  she  rodo 

Beneath  thy  burning  eye  ; 
And  here,  in  thought,  to  thee — 

In  thought  that  can  alone 
Ascend  thy  empire,  and  so  be 

A  partner  of  thy  throne — 
By  winged  Fantasy,f 

My  embassy  is  given, 
Till  secrecy  shall  knowledge  be 


*  The  Humanitarians  held  that  God  was  to  be  understood  as 
having  really  a  human  form. —  Vide  Clarke's  Sermons,  vol.  i,  p. 
26,  fol.  edit. 

The  drift  of  Milton's  argument  leads  him  to  employ  language 
which  would  appear,  at  first  sight,  to  verge  upon  their  doctrine; 
but  it  will  be  seen  immediately  that  he  guards  himself  against 
the  charge  of  having  adopted  one  of  the  most  ignorant  errors 
of  the  dark  ages  of  the  church. — Dr.  Samner's  Notes  on  Mil- 
ton's Christian  Doctrine. 

This  opinion,  in  spite  of  many  testimonies  to  the  contrary, 
could  never  have  been  very  general.  Andeus,  a  Syrian,  of 
Mesopotamia,  was  condemned  for  the  opinion,  as  heretical. 
He  lived  in  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  century.  His  disciples 
were  called  Anthropomorphites. —  Vide  Du  Pin. 

Among  Milton's  minor  poems  are  these  lines: — 
Dicite  sacrorum  praesides  nemorum  Deae, 
Quis  ille  primus  cujus  ex  imagine 
Natura  solers  finxit  human um  genus? 
Eternus,  incorruptus,  aequsevus  polo, 
Unusque  et  universus  exemplar  Dei. 

And  afterwards: — 

Non  cui  profundum  Caecitas  lumen  dedit 
Dircseus  augur  vidit  hunc  alto  sinu,  etc. 
f  Seltsamen  Tochter  Jovis 
Seinem  Schosskinde 
Der  Phantasie. — Gcethe. 


sLL  AARAAF.  157 

In  the  environs  of  Heaven." 
She  ceased :  and  buried  then  her  burning  cheek 
Abash'd  amid  the  lilies  there,  to  seek 
A  shelter  from  the  fervor  of  His  eye ; 
For  the  stars  trembled  at  the  Deity. 
She  stirr'd  not  — breath'd  not — for  a  voice  was 

there 

How  solemnly  pervading  the  calm  air ! 
A  so  and  of  silence  on  the  startled  ear 
Which  dreamy  poets  name  "  the  music  of  the 

sphere." 

Ours  is  a  world  of  words :    Quiet  we  call 
"  Silence," — which  is  the  merest  word  of  all. 
All  Nature  speaks,  and  ev'n  ideal  things 
Flap  shadowy  sounds  from  visionary  wings  : 
But  ah !  why  not  so  when,  thus,  in  realms  on 

high 

The  eternal  voice  of  God  is  passing  by, 
And  the  red  winds  are  withering  in  the  sky ! 

"  What  tho'  in  worlds  which  sightless*  cycles 

run, 

Link'd  to  a  little  system,  and  one  sun — 
Where  all  my  love  is  folly,  and  the  crowd 
Still  think  my  terrors  but  the  thunder-cloud, 
The  storm,  the  earthquake,  and  the  ocean  wrath 
(Ah  !  will  they  cross  me  in  my  angrier  path  ?) 
What  tho'  in  worlds  which  own  a  single  sun 


*  Sightless — too  smaL  to  be  seen.  — Legge. 


158  AL  AARAAF. 

The  sands  of  Time  grow  dimmer  as  they  run, 

Yet  thine  is  my  resplendency,  so  given 

To  bear  my  secrets  thro'  the  upper  Heaven, 

Leave  tenantless  the  crystal  home,  and  fly, 

With  all  thy  train,  athwart  the  moony  sky — 

Apart — like  fireflies*  in  Sicilian  night, 

And  wing  to  other  worlds  another  light ! 

Divulge  the  secrets  of  thy  embassy 

To  the  proud  orbs  that  twinkle — and  so  be 

To  ev'ry  heart  a  barrier  and  a  ban 

Lest  the  stars  totter  in  the  guilt  of  man !  " 

Up  rose  the  maiden  in  the  yellow  night, 
The  single-mooned  eve  !— on  Earth  we  plight 
Oar  faith  to  one  love — and  one  moon  adore — 
The  birthplace  of  young  Beauty  had  no  more. 
As  sprang  that  yellow  star  from  downy  hours, 
Up  rose  the  maiden  from  her  shrine  of  flowers, 
And  bent  o'er  sheeny  mountain  and  dim  plain 
Her  way,  but  left  not  yet  her  Therasseanf  reign. 


PAET  II. 

High  on  a  mountain  of  enamel'd  head — 
Such  as  the  drowsy  shepherd  on  his  bed 


*  I  have  often  noticed  a  peculiar  movement  of  the  fireflies. 
They  will  collect  into  a  body  and  fly  off,  from  a  common  center, 
into  innumerable  radii. 

f  Therasaea,  or  Theraseft,  the  island  mentioned  by  Seneca, 
which,  in  a  moment,  arose  from  the  sea  to  the  eyes  of  oston, 
ished  mariners. 


AL  AARAAF. 


159 


Of  giant  pasturage  lying  at  bis  ease, 
Raising  his  heavy  eyelid,  starts  and  sees 
With  many  a  mutter'd  "  hope  to  be  forgiven  * 
"What  time  the  moon  is  quadrated  in  Heaven — 
Of  rosy  herd,  that  towering  far  away 
Into  the  sunlit  ether,  caught  the  ray 
Of  sunken  suns  at  eve — at  noon  of  night, 
While  the  moon  danc'd  with  the  fair  stranger 

light— 

Uprear'd  upon  such  height  arose  a  pile 
Of  gorgeous  columns  0:1  th'  unburtben'd  air, 
Flashing  from  Parian  marble  that  twin  smile 
Far  down  upon  the  wave  that  sparkled  there, 
And  nursled  the  young  mountain  in  its  lair. 
Of  molten  stars*  their  pavement,  such  as  fall 
Thro'  the  ebon  air  besilvering  the  pall 
Of  their  own  dissolution,  while  they  die — 
Adorning  then  the  dwellings  of  the  sky. 
A  dome,  by  linked  light  from  Heaven  let  down, 
Sat  gently  on  these  columns  as  a  crown — 
A  window  of  one  circular  diamond,  there, 
Look'd  out  above  into  the  purple  air, 
And  rays  from  God  shot  down  that  meteor  cnain 
And  hallow'd  all  the  beauty  twice  again, 
Save  when,  between  th'  Empyrean  and  that  ring. 
Some  eager  spirit  flapp'd  his  dusky  wing. 
But  on  the  pillars  seraph  eyes  have  seen 
The  dimness  of  this  world  ;  that  grayish  green 


*  Some  star,  which,  from  the  ruin'd  roof 
Of  shak'd  Olyinpus,  by  mischance  did  fall. — Milton, 


160  AL  AARAAF. 

That  Nature  loves  the  best  for  Beauty's  grave 
Lurk'd  in  each  cornice,  round  each  architrave — 
And  every  sculp  tur'd  cherub  thereabout 
That  from  his  marble  dwelling  peered  out, 
Seem'd  earthly  in  the  shadow  of  his  niche — 
Achaian  statues  in  the  world  so  rich  ? 
Friezes  from  Tadmor  and  Persepolis,*— 
From  Balbec,  and  the  stilly,  clear  abyss 
Of  beautiful  Gomorrah  !|    Oh,  the  wave 
Is  now  upon  thee — but  too  late  to  save  ! 

Sound  loves  to  revel  in  a  summer  night : 
Witness  the  murmur  of  the  gray  twilight 
That  stole  upon  the  ear,  in  Eyraco,J 
Of  many  a  wild  star-gazer  long  ago — 
That  stealeth  ever  on  the  ear  of  him 
Who,  musing,  gazeth  on  the  distance  dim, 
And  sees  the  darkness  coming  as  a  cloud — 


*  Voltaire,  in  speaking  of  Persepolis,  says  :  "  Je  connois  bien 
1'admiration  qu'inspirent  ces  ruines — :mais  un  palais  erige  au 
pied  d'une  chaine  des  rochers  sterils — peut  il  etre  un  chef 
d'ceuvre  des  arts  ! " 

•}•  "  Oh,  the  wave" — Ula  Deguisi,  is  the  Turkish  appellation  ; 
but  on  its  shores,  it  is  called  Bahar  Loth,  or  Almotanah.  There 
were  undoubtedly  more  than  two  cities  engulfed  in  the  "  Dead 
Sea."  In  the  valley  of  Siddam  were  five — Adrah,  Zeboin,  Zoar, 
Sodom,  and  Gomorrah.  Stephen  of  Byzantium  mentions  eight, 
and  Strabo  thirteen  (engulfed) — but  the  last  is  out  of  all  reason. 

It  is  said  [Tacitus,  Strabo,  Josephus,  Daniel  of  St.  Saba,  Nan, 
Maundrell,  Troilo,  D'Arvieux]  that  after  an  excessive  drought, 
the  vestiges  of  columns,  walls,  etc.,  are  seen  above  the  surface. 
At  any  season,  such  remains  may  be  discovered  by  looking 
down  into  the  transparent  lake,  and  at  such  distances  as  would 
argue  the  existence  of  many  settlements  in  the  space  now 
usurped  by  the  ' '  Asphaltites. " 

\  Eyraco— Chaldea. 


AL  AABAAF.  161 

I*  not  its  form — its  voice — most  palpable  and 
loud  ?  * 

But  what  is  this  ?    It  cometh,  and  it  brings 
A  music  with  it ;  'tis  the  rush  of  wings. 
A  pause — and  then  a  sweeping,  falling  strain. 
And  Nesace  is  in  her  halls  again. 
From  the  wild  energy  of  wanton  haste 

Her  cheeks  were  flushing,  and  her  lips  apart ; 
And  zone  that  clung  around  her  gentle  waist 

Had  burst  beneath  the  heaving  of  her  heart 
Within  the  center  of  that  hall  to  breathe, 
She  pans'd  and  panted,  Zanthe !  all  beneath, 
The  fairy  light  that  kiss'd  her  golden  hair, 
And  long'd  to  rest,  yet  could  but  sparkle  there  ! 

Young  flowersf  were  whispering  in  melody 
To  happy  flowers  that  night — and  tree  to  tree ; 
Fountains  were  gus'ting  music  as  they  fell 
In  many  a  star-lit  grove,  or  moon-lit  dell ; 
Yet  silence  came  upon  mat<  rial  things — 
Fair  flowers,  bright  waterfalls,  and  angel  wings. 
And  sound  alone  that  from  the  spirit  sprang 
Bore  burthen  to  the  charm  the  maiden  sang  :  — 

"  'Neath  bluebell  or  streamer, 
Or  tufted  wild  spray, 


*  I  have  often  thought  I  could  distinctly  hear  the  sound  of 
the  darkness  as  it  stole  over  the  horizon. 

f  Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  charactery. — Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor. 


162  AL  AARAAF. 

That  keeps  from  the  dreamer 

The  ^moonbeam  away:* — 
Bright  beings  that  ponder, 

With  half -closing  eyes, 
On  the  stars  which  your  wonder 

Hath  drawn  from  the  sk:es, 
'Till  they  glance  thro'  the  shade,  and 

Come  down  to  your  brow 
Like  eyes  of  the  maiden 

Who  calls  on  you  now, — 
Arise  from  your  dreaming 

In  violet  bowers, 
To  duty  beseeming 

These  star-litten  hours, — 
And  shake  from  your  tresses 

Encumber'd  with  dew 
The  breath  of  those  kisses 

That  cumber  them  too — 
(Oh,  how,  without  you,  Love, 

Could  angels  be  blest  ?) 
Those  kisses  of  true  love 

Thatlull'dyetorest! 
Up !  shake  from  your  wing 

Each  hindering  thing : 
The  dew  of  the  night — 

It  would  weigh  down  your  flight ; 


*  la  Scripture  is  this  passage  :  "  The  sun  shall  not  harm  thee 
by  day,  nor  the  moon  by  night."  It  is  perhaps  not  generally 
known  that  the  moon,  in  Egypt,  has  the  effect  of  producing 
blindness  to  those  who  sleep  with  the  face  exposed  to  its  rays, 
to  which  circumstance  the  passage  evidently  alludes. 


AL  AARAAF  163 

And  true  love  caresses — 
Oh,  leave  them  apart ! 
They  are  light  on  the  tresses, 

But  lead  on  the  heart. 
Ligeia !  Ligeia ! 

My  beautiful  one ! 
"Whose  harshest  idea 

Will  to  melody  run, 
Oh,  is  it  thy  will 

On  the  breezes  to  toss  ? 
Or,  capriciously  still, 

Like  the  lone  albatross,* 
Incumbent  on  night 

(As  she  on  the  air) 
To  keep  watch  with  delight 

On  the  harmony  there  ? 

"  Ligeia !  wherever 

Thy  image  may  be, 
No  magic  shall  sever 

Thy  music  from  thee. 
Thou  hast  bound  many  eyes 

In  a  dreamy  sleep, 
But  the  strains  still  arise 

Which  tliy  vigilance  keep—- 
The sound  of  the  rain 

"Which  leaps  down  to  the  flower, 
And  dances  again 


*  The  albatross  is  said  to  sleep  ou  the  wing. 


164  AL  AARAAF. 

In  the  rhythm  of  the  shower-"* 
The  murmur  that  springs* 

From  the  growing  of  grass 
Are  the  music  of  things — 

But  are  model'd,  alas ! 
Away,  then,  my  dearest, 

Oh,  hie  thee  away 
To  springs  that  lie  clearest 

Beneath  the  moon-ray, — 
To  lone  lake  that  smiles 

In  its  dream  of  deep  rest, 
At  the  many  star-isles 

That  en  jewel  its  breast,— 
Where  wild  flowers,  creeping, 

Have  mingled  their  shade 
On  its  margin  is  sleeping 

Full  many  a  maid : 
Some  have  left  the  cool  shade,  and 

Have  slept  with  the  bee,f — 


*  I  met  with  this  idea  in  an  old  English  tale,  which  I  am  now 
unable  to  obtain,  and  quote  from  memory  :  "  The  verie  essence, 
and,  as  it  were,  springe-heade  and  origine  of  all  musiche  is  the 
verie  pleasante  sounde  which  the  trees  of  the  forest  do  make 
when  they  growe." 

f  The  wild  bee  will  not  sleep  in  the  shade  if  there  be  moon- 
light. 

The  rhyme  in  this  verse,  as  in  one  about  sixty  lines  before, 
has  an  appearance  of  affectation.  It  is,  however,  imitated  from 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  or  rather  from  Claude  Halero, — in  whose 
mouth  I  admired  its  effect : — 

"  Oh,  were  there  an  island, 

Though  ever  so  wild, 
Where  woman  might  smile,  and 
Nomanbebeguil'd." 


AL  AARAAF.  165 

Arouse  them,  my  maiden, 

On  moorland  and  lea, — 
Go,  breathe  on  their  slumber, 

All  softly  in  ear, — 
The  musical  number 

They  slumbered  to  hear, — 
For  what  can  awaken 

An  angel  so  soon, 
Whose  sleep  hath  been  taken 

Beneath  the  cold  moon, 
As  the  spell  which  no  slumber 

Of  witchery  may  test, 
The  rhythmical  number 

Which  lull'd  him  to  rest  \ " 

Spirits  in  wing,  and  angels  to  the  view, 

A  thousand  seraphs  burst  th'  Empyrean  through, 

Young  dreams  still  hovering  on  their  drowsy  flight, 

Seraphs  in  all  but  "  Knowledge,"  the  keen  light 

That  fell,  refracted,  through  thy  bounds,  afar 

Oh,  Death  !  from  eye  of  God  upon  that  star  : 

Sweet  was  that  error — sweeter  still  that  death,— 

Sweet  was  that  error — ev'n  with  us  the  breath 

Of  Science  dims  the  mirror  of  our  joy, — 

To  them  'twere  the  Simoon,  and  would  destroy, — 

For  what  (to  them)  availeth  it  to  know 

That  Truth  is  Falsehood,  or  that  Bliss  is  Woe  ? 

Sweet  was  their  death :  with  them  to  die  was  rife 

With  the  last  ecstacy  of  satiate  life  ; — 

Beyond  that  death  no  immortality, — 


166  AL  AARAAF. 

But  sleep  that  pondereth,  and  is  not  "  to  be." 

And  there,  oh  may  my  weary  spirit  dwell, 

Apart  from  Heaven's  Eternity, — and  yet  how  far 

from  Hell  !* 

With  guilty  spirit,  in  what  shrubbery  dim, 
Heard  not  the  stirring  summons  of  that  hymn  ? 
But  two  :  they  fell :  for  Heaven  no  grace  imparts 
To  those  who  hear  not  for  their  beating  hearts. 
A  maiden  angel  and  her  seraph  lover — 
Oli,  where  (and  ye  may  seek  the  wide  skies  over) 
Was  Love,  the  blind,  near  sober  Duty  known  ? 
Unguided  Love  hath  fallen — 'mid  "  tears  of  perfect 

moan."f 

He  was  a  goodly  spirit — he  who  fell : 
A  wanderer  by  mossy-mantled  well, — 
A  gazer  on  the  lights  that  shine  above, — 
A  dreamer  on  the  moonbeam  by  his  love  ! 
What  wonder  ?  for  each  star  is  eyelike  there, 

*  With  the  Arabians  there  is  a  medium  between  Heaven  and 
Hell,  where  men  suffer  no  punishment,  but  yet  do  not  attain 
that  tranquil  and  even  happiness  which  they  suppose  to  be 
characteristic  of  heavenly  enjoyment. 

Un  no  rompido  sueno — 

Un  dia  puro — allegre — libre 

Quiera — 

Libre  de  amor — de  zelo — 

De  odio — de  esperanza — de  rezelo.—  Luis  Ponce  de  Leon. 
Sorrow  is  not  excluded  from  "  Al  Aaraaf,"  but  it  is  that  sor- 
row which  the  living  love  to  cherish  for  the  dead,  and  which, 
in  some  minds,  resembles  the  delirium  of  opium.  The  passion- 
ate excitement  of  Love  and  the  buoyancy  of  spirit  attendant 
upon  intoxication  are  its  less  holy  pleasures, — the  price  of 
which,  to  those  souls  who  make  choice  of  "  Al  Aaraaf  "  as  the 
residence  after  life,  is  final  death  and  annihilation. 

f  There  be  tears  of  perfect  moan, 
Wept  for  thee  in  Helicon. — Milton, 


DEATH  THE  WHILE  STOLE  O'ER  MY  SENSES  IN  THAT 
LOVELY  ISLE." 


AL  AAtiAAF.  167 

And  looks  so  sweetly  down  on  Beauty's  Lair; 

And  they,  and  every  mossy  spring  were  holy 

To  his  love-haunted  heart  and  melancholy. 

The  2iight  had  found  (to*  him  a  night  of  woe) 

Upon  a  mountain  crag,  young  Angelo, — 

Beetling,  it  bends  athwart  the  solemn  sky, 

And  scowls  on  starry  worlds  that  down  beneath  it  lie. 

Here  sat  he  with  his  love, — his  dark  eye  bent 

With  eagle  gaze  along  the  firmament : 

Now  turn'd  it  upon  her, — but  even  then 

It  trembled  to  the  orb  of  EARTH  again. 

"  lanthe,  dearest,  see,  how  dim  that  ray ! 

How  lovely  'tis  to  look  so  far  away ! 

She  seem'd  not  thus  upon  that  autumn  eve 

I  left  her  gorgeous  halls, — nor  mourned  to  leave. 

That  eve- — that  eve — I  should  remember  well — 

The  sun-ray  dropp'd,  in  Lemnos,  with  a  spell 

On  th'  Arabesque  carving  of  a  gilded  hall 

Wherein  I  sate,  and  on  the  draperied  wall — 

And  on  my  eyelids — oh,  the  heavy  light  I 

How  drowsily  it  weigh'  i  them  into  night ! 

On  flowers,  before,  and  mist,  and  love  they  ran 

With  Persian  Saadi  in  his  Gulistan  : 

But  oh,  that  light ! — I  slumber'd — Death,  the  while, 

Stole  o'er  my  senses  in  that  lovely  isle 

So  softly  that  no  single  silken  hair 

Awoke  that  slept, — or  knew  that  he  was  there. 

"  The  last  spot  of  Earth's  orb  I  trod  upon 


168  AL  AARAAF. 

Was  a  proud  temple  call'd  the  Parthenon.* 
More  beauty  clung  around  her  column'd  wall 
Than  ev'n  thy  glowing  bosom  beats  withal,f 
And  when  old  Time  my  wing  did  disenthrall, 
Thence  sprang  1^  as  the  eagle  from  his  tower? 
And  years  I  left  behind  me  in  an  hour. 
What  time  upon  her  airy  bounds  I  hung 
One  half  the  garden  of  her  globe  was  flung 
Unrolling  as  a  chant  unto  my  view 
Tenantless  cities  of  the  desert,  too  ! 
lanthe,  beauty  crowded  on  me,  then, 
And  half  I  wish'd  to  be  again  of  men." 

u  My  Angelo  !  and  why  of  them  to  be  ? 
A  brighter  dwelling-place  is  here  for  thee ; 
And  greener  fields  than  in  your  world  above, 
And  woman's  loveliness — and  passionate  love." 
"  But,  list,  lanthe  !  when  the  air  so  soft 
Fail'd,  as  my  pennon'd  spirit  leapt  aloft,J 
Perhaps  my  brain  grew  dizzy ;  but  the  world 
I  left  so  late  was  into  chaos  huii'd,- 
Sprang  from  her  station,  on  the  winds  apart, 
And  roll'd,  a  flame,  the  fiery  Heaven  athwart. 
Methought,  my  sweet  one,  then  I  ceased  to  soar, 
And  fell, — not  swiftly  as  I  rose  before, 


*  It  was  entire  in  1687, — the  most  elevated  spot  in  Athens. 

more  beauty  in  their  airy  brows 
;he  white  breasts  of  the  Queen  o: 

J  Pennon — for  pinion.—  Milton. 


\  Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  airy  brows 
Thau  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  Queen  of  Love. 

— Marlowe. 


AL-  AAUAAF  169 

But  with  a  downward,  tremulous  motion,  through 
Light,  brazen  rajs,  this  golden  star  unto  ! 
Nor  long  the  measure  of  my  falling  hours : 
For  nearest  of  all  stars  was  thine  to  ours, — 
Dread  star  !  that  came,  amid  a  night  of  mirth, 
A  red  Dsedalion  on  the  timid  Earth. 

*  We  came, — and  by  thy  Earth  ;  but  not  to  us 

Be  given  our  lady's  bidding  to  discuss : 

We  came,  by  love  ;  around,  above,  below, 

Gay  firefly  of  the  night  we  come  and  go, 

Nor  ask  a  reason  save  the  angel-nod 

She  grants  to  us,  as  granted  by  her  God. 

But,  Angelo,  than  thine  gray  Time  unfurl'd 

Never  his  fairy  wing  o'er  fairer  world ! 

Dim  was  its  little  disk,  and  angel  eyes 

Alone  could  see  the  phantom  in  the  skies, 

When  first  Al  Aaraaf  knew  her  course  to  be 

Headlong  thitherward  o'er  the  .starry  sea ; 

But  when  its  glory  swell'd  upon  the  sky, 

As  glowing  Beauty's  bust  beneath  man's  eye, 

We  paus'd  before  the  heritage  of  men, 

And  thy  star  trembled, — as  doth  Beauty  then ! " 

Thus,  in  discourse,  the  lovers  whil'd  away        [day. 

The  night  that  waned  and  waned  and  brought  no 

They  fell :  for  Heaven  to  them  no  hope  imparts 

Who  hear  not  for  the  beating  of  their  hearts. 


TO  THE  RIVER 


JAIH  river  !  in  thy  bright,  clear  flow 
Of  crystal,  wandering  water, 
Thou  art  an  emblem  of  the  glow 

Of  beauty — the  unhidden  heart—- 
The playful  maziness  of  art 
In  old  Alberto's  daughter; 

But  when  within  thy  wave  she  looks, 

Which  glistens  then,  and  trembles,— 
Why,  then,  the  prettiest  of  brooks 

Her  worshiper  resembles ; 
For  in  his  heart,  as  in  thy  stream, 

Her  image  deeply  lies, — 
His  heart  which  trembles  at  the  beam 

Of  her  soul-searching  eyes. 


170 


TAMERLANE. 

This  poem  was  originally  published  in  1827,  and  gav«  tht 

title  to  his  first  printed  volume. 

JIT  LND  solace  in  a  dying  hour ! 

Such,  father,  is  not  (now)  my  theme: 
I  will  not  madly  deem  that  power 

Of  Earth  may  shrive  me  of  the  sin 
Unearthly  pride  hath  revel'd  in. 
I  have  no  time  to  dote  or  dream : 
You  call  it  hope — that  fire  of  fire  ! 
It  is  but  agony  of  desire ! 
If  I  can  hope— oh,  God !  I  can : 

Its  fount  is  holier — more  divine — 
I  would  not  call  thee  fool,  old  man, 
But  such  is  not  a  gift  of  thine. 

Know  thou  the  secret  of  a  spirit 

Bow'd  from  its  wild  pride  into  shame. 

Oh,  yearning  heart !    I  did  inherit 
Thy  withering  portion  with  the  fame, 

The  searing  glory  which  hath  shone 

Amid  the  jewels  of  my  throne, 

Halo  of  Hell !  and  with  a  pain 

Not  Hell  shall  make  me  feur  again ! 
171 


172  TAMERLANE. 

Oh,  craving  heart,  for  the  lost  flowers 
And  sunshine  of  my  summer  hours  1 
The  undying  voice  of  that  dead  time, 
With  its  interminable  chime, 
-Rings,  in  the  spirit  of  a  spell, 
Upon  my  emptiness — a  knell. 

I  have  not  always  been  as  now : 
The  fever'd  diadem  on  my  brow 

I  claim'd  and  won  usurpingly. 
Hath  not  the  same  fierce  heirdom  given 

Home  to  Caesar — this  to  me  ? 

The  heritage  of  a  kingly  mind, 
And  a  proud  spirit  which  hath  striven 
Triumphantly  with  human  kind. 
On  mountain  soil  I  first  drew  life  : 

The  mists  of  the  Taglay  have  shed 

Nightly  their  dews  upon  my  head  ; 
And,  I  believe,  the  winged  strife 
And  tumult  of  the  headlong  air 
Have  nestled  in  my  very  hair. 

So  late  from  Heaven — that  dew — it  fell 
('Mid  dreams  of  an  unholy  night) 

Upon  me  with  the  touch  of  Hell, 
While  the  red  flashing  of  the  light 

From  clouds  that  hun<r  like  banners  o'er 

O 

Appeared  to  my  half-closing  eye 
The  pageantry  of  monarchy  : 
And  the  deep  trumpet-thunder's  roar 


TAMERLANE.  173 

Came  hurriedly  upon  me,  telling 
Of  human  battle,  where  my  voice — 

My  own  voice,  silly  child ! — was  swelling 
(Oh,  how  my  spirit  would  rejoice, 

And  leap  within  me  at  the  cry) 

The  battle-cry  of  Victory  ! 

The  rain  came  down  upon  my  Lead 
Unshelter'd  ;  and  the  heavy  wind 
Rendered  me  mad  and  deaf  and  blind. 

It  was  bat  man,  I  thought,  who  shed 

Laurels  upon  me  :  and  the  rush — 
The  torrent  of  the  chilly  air 

Gurgled  within  my  ear  the  crust 

Of  empires — with  the  captive's  prayer— 

The  hum  of  suitors —  and  the  tone 

Of  flattery  round  a  sovereign's  throne. 

My  passions,  from  that  hapless  hour, 

Usurp'd  a  tyranny  which  men 
Have  deem'd,  since  I  have  reach'd  to  power, 
My  innate  nature :  be  it  so. 

But  father,  there  liv'd  one  who,  then, 
Then — in  my  boyhood — when  their  fire 

Burn'd  with  a  still  intenser  glow 
(For  passion  must,  with  youth  expire) 

E'en  then  who  knew  this  iron  heart 

In  woman's  weakness  had  a  part. 

I  have  no  words,  alas !  to  tell 


174  TAMERLANE. 

The  loveliness  of  loving  well ! 
£for  would  I  now  attempt  to  trace 
The  more  than  beauty  of  a  face 
Whose  lineaments,  upon  my  mind, 
Are — shadows  on  th'  unstable  wind. 
Thus  I  remember  having  dwelt 

Some  page  of  early  lore  upon, 
With  loitering  eye,  till  I  have  felt 
The  letters — with  their  meaning — melt 

To  fantasies — with  none. 

Oh,  she  was  worthy  of  all  love  ! 

Love,  as  in  infancy  was  mine  ! 
Twas  such  as  angel  minds  above 

Might  envy  ;  her  young  heart  the  shrine 
On  which  my  every  hope  and  thought 

Were  incense, — then  a  goodly  gift, 

For  they  were  childish  and  upright,— 
Pure, —  as  her  young  example  taught : 

Why  did  I  leave  it,  and,  adrift, 
Trust  to  the  fire  within  for  light  ? 

We  grew  in  age — and  love — together — 
Roaming  the  forest  and  the  wild ; 

My  breast  her  shield  in  wintry  weather, 
And  when  the  friendly  sunshine  smilM 

And  she  would  mark  the  opening  skies, 

/saw  no  Heaven — but  in  her  eyes. 

Young  Love's  first  lesson  is — the  heart : 


TAMERLANE. 

For  'mid  that  sunshine,  and  those  smiles, 
When,  from  our  little  cares  apart, 

And  laughing  at  her  girlish  wiles, 
I'd  throw  me  on  her  throbbing  breast, 

And  pour  my  spirit  out  in  tears ; 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  the  rest,— 

No  need  to  quiet  any  fears 
Of  her, — who  ask'd  no  reason  why, 
But  turn'd  on  me  her  quiet  eye  ! 

Yet  more  than  worthy  of  the  love 
My  spirit  struggled  with,  and  strove, 
When,  on  the  mountain-peak,  alone, 
Ambition  lent  it  a  new  tone, — 
I  had  no  being  but  in  thee. 

The  world,  and  all  it  did  contain 
In  the  earth — the  air — the  sea — 

Its  joy — its  little  lot  of  pain 
That  was  new  pleasure, — the  ideal 

Dim  vanities  of  dreams  by  night, 
AnJ  dimmer  nothings  which  were  real, — 

(Shadows,  arid  a  more  shadowy  light !) 
Parted  upon  their  misty  wings, 
And  so,  confusedly,  became 
Thine  image  and — a  name  ! — • 
Two  separate  yet  most  intimate  things. 

I  was  ambitious.    Have  you  known 

The  passion,  father  3    You  have  not  I 
A  cottager,  I  mark'd  a  throne 


176  TAMERLANE 

Of  half  the  world  as  all  my  own, 

And  murmur'd  at  such  lowly  lot. 

But,  just  like  any  other  dream. 
Upon  the  vapor  of  the  dew 

My  own  had  past,  did  not  the  beam 

Of  beauty  which  did  while  it  through 

The  minute — the  hour — the  day — oppress 

My  mind  had  double  loveliness. 

"VVe  walk'd  together  on  the  crown 
Of  a  high  mountain  that  look'd  down 
Afar  from  its  proud  natural  towers 

Of  rock  and  forest,  on  the  hills, — 
The  dwindled  hills  ! — begirt  with  bowers, 

And  spouting  with  a  thousand  rills. 

I  spoke  to  her  of  power  and  pride, 

But  mystically, — in  such  guise 
That  she  might  deem  it  naught  beside 

The  moment's  converse.     In  her  eyes 
I  read,  perhaps  too  carelesfcly, 

A  mingled  feeling  with  my  own. 
The  flush  on  her  bright  cheek,  to  me 

Seem'd  to  become  a  queenly  throne 
Too  well  that  I  should  let  it  be 

Light  in  the  wilderness  alone. 

1  wrapp'd  myself  in  grandeur  then, 
And  donn'd  a  visionary  crown: 
Yet  it  was  not  that  Fantasy 
Had  thrown  her  mantle  over  me ; 


jdut  mat,  among  the  rabble— mens 

Lion  ambition  is  chain'd  down, 
And  crouches  to  a  keeper's  hand ; 
Not  so  in  deserts,  where  the  grand—- 
The wild — the  terrible — conspire 
With  their  own  breath  to  fan  his  fire. 

Look  round  thee  now  on  Samarcand ! 

Is  she  not  queen  of  Earth  ?    Her  pride 
Above  all  cities  ?    In  her  hand 

Their  destinies  ?    In  all  beside 
Of  glory  which  the  world  hath  known 
Stands  she  not  nobly  and  alone  ? 
Falling, — her  veriest  stepping-stone 
Shall  form  the  pedestal  of  a  throne ! 
Arid  who  her  sovereign  ?    Timour, — he 

Whom  the  astonish'd  people  saw 
Striding  o'er  empires  haughtily, — 

A  diadem'd  outlaw ! 

Oh,  human  love  !    Thou  spirit  given, 
On  Earth,  of  all  we  hope  in  Heaven ! 
Which  fall'st  into  the  soul  like  rain 
Upon  the  Siroc-wither'd  plain, 
And,  failing  in  thy  power  to  bless, 
But  leav'st  the  heart  a  wilderness  I 
Idea  which  bindest  life  around 
With  music  of  so  strange  a  sound 
And  beauty  of  so  wild  a  birth, — 
Farewell !  for  I  have  won  the  Earth ! 


178  TAMERLANE 

When  Hope,  the  eagle  that  tower'd,  could  see 

No  cliff  beyond  him  in  the  sky, 
His  pinions  were  bent  droopingly, 

And  homeward  turn'd  his  sofien'd  eye. 
'Twas  sunset :  when  the  sun  will  part 
There  comes  a  sullenness  of  heart 
To  him  who  still  would  look  upon 
The  glory  of  the  summer  sun. 
That  soul  will  hate  the  ev'ning  mist, 
So  often  lovely,  and  will  list 
To  the  sound  of  the  coming  darkness  (known 
To  those  whose  spirits  harken)  as  one 
"Who,  in  a  dream  of  night,  would  fly, 
But  can  not,  from  a  danger  nigh. 

What  though  the  moon — the  white  moon-* 
Shed  all  the  splendor  of  her  noon, 
Her  smile  is  chilly,  and  her  beam, 
In  that  time  of  dreariness,  will  seem 
(So  like  you  gather  in  your  breath) 
A  portrait  taken  after  death. 
And  boyhood  is  a  summer  sun 
"Whose  waning  is  the  dreariest  one. 
For  all  we  live  to  know  is  known, 
And  all  we  seek  to  keep  hath  flown : 
Let  life,  then,  as  the  day-flower,  fall 
With  the  noonday  beauty, — which  is  all. 

I  reach'd  my  home — my  home  no  more ! 
For  all  had  flown  who  made  it  so. 


TAMERLANE.  17$ 

I  pass'd  from  out  its  mossy  door, 

And,  though  my  tread  was  soft  and  low, 
A  voice  came  from  the  threshhold  stone 
Of  one  whom  I  had  earlier  known: 
Oh,  I  defy  thee,  Hell,  to  show 
On  beds  of  fire  that  burn  below, 
A  humbler  heart — a  deeper  woe. 

Father,  I  firmly  do  believe — 

I  know — for  Death  who  comes  for  me 
From  regions  of  the  blest  afar, 

Where  there  is  nothing  to  deceive, 

Hath  left  his  iron  gate  ajar, 
And  rays  of  truth  you  can  not  see 
Are  flashing  through  Eternity,— 

I  do  believe  that  Eblis  hath 

A  snare  in  every  human  path  : 

Else  how,  when  in  the  holy  grove, 

I  wandered,  of  the  idol,  Love, 

Who  daily  scents  his  snowy  wings 

With  incense  of  burnt  offerings 

From  the  most  unpolluted  things, 

Whose  pleasant  bowers  are  yet  so  riven 

Above  with  trellis'd  rays  from  Heaven, 

JTo  more  may  shun — no  tiniest  fly — 

The  lightning  of  his  eagle  eye, — 

How  was  it  that  Ambition  crept, 
Unseen,  amid  the  revels  there, 

Till,  growing  bold,  he  laughed  and  leapt 
In  the  tangles  of  Love's  very  hair  ? 


FAIRY-LAND. 

IM  vales — and  shadowy  floods — 

And  cloudy-looking  woods, 
Whose  forms  we  can't  discover 
For  the  tears  that  drip  all  over : 
Huge  moons  there  wax  and  wane, — 
Again — again — again — 
Every  moment  of  the  night, — 
Forever  changing  places, — 
And  they  put  out  the  starlight 
With  the  breath  from  their  pale  faces. 
About  twelve  by  the  moon-dial, 
One  more  filmy  than  the  rest 
Comes  down — still  down — and  down 
With  its  center  on  the  crown 
Of  a  mountain's  eminence, 
While  its  wide  circumference 
In  easy  drapery  falls 
Over  hamlets,  over  halls, 
Wherever  they  may  be  : 
O'er  the  strange  woods — o'er  the  sea- 
Over  spirits  on  the  wing — 
Over  every  drowsy  thing — 

And  buries  them  up  quite 

180 


FAIRY-LAND. 

In  a  labyrinth  of  light ; 

And  then,  how  deep ! — oh,  deep 

Is  the  passion  of  their  sleep. 

In  the  morning  they  arise, 

And  their  moony  covering 

Is  soaring  in  the  skies, 

With  the  tempests  as  they  toss. 

Like — almost  anything — 

Or  a  yellow  albatross. 

They  use  that  moon  no  more 

For  tho  same  end  as  before,— 

Yidelicet,  a  tent, 

Which  I  think  extravagant : 

Its  atomies,  however, 

Into  a  shower  dissever, 

Of  which  those  butterflies 

Of  Earth  who  seek  the  skies, 

And  so  come  down  again 

(Never-contented  things !) 

Have  brought  a  specimen 

Upon  their  quivering  wings. 


TOL 

all  who  hail  thy  presence  as  the  morning, — 
Of  all  to  whom  thine  absence  is  the  night, — • 
The  blotting  utterly  from  out  high  heaven 
The  sacred  sun, — of  all  who,  weeping,  bless  thee 
Hourly  for  hope — for  life — ah  !  above  all, 
For  the  resurrection  of  deep-buried  faith 
In  Truth — in  Virtue — in  Humanity, — 
Of  all  who,  on  Despair's  unhallow'd  bed 
Lying  down  to  die,  have  suddenly  arisen 
At  thy  soft-murmured  words, "  Let  there  be  light ! " 
At  the  soft-murmured  words  that  were  fulfilled 
In  the  seraphic  glancing  of  thine  eyes, — 
Of  all  who  owe  thee  most,  whose  gratitude 
Nearest  resembles  worship, — oh,  remember 
The  truest — the  most  fervently  devoted, 
And  think  that  these  weak  lines  were  written  by 

him, — 

Bv  him  who,  as  he  pens  them,  thrills  to  think 
His  spirit  is  communing  with  an  angel's. 


182 


ROMANCE. 

O MANGE,  who  love  to  nod  and  sing, 
With  drowsy  head  and  folded  wing, 
Among  the  green  leaves  as  they  shake 
Far  down  within  some  shadowy  lake, 

To  me  a  painted  paroquet 
Hath  been  a  most  familiar  bird, — 

Taught  me  my  alphabet  to  say — 
To  lisp  my  very  earliest  word 
While  in  the  wild  wood  I  did  lie, 
A  child — with  a  most  knowing  eye. 

Of  late,  eternal  Condor  years 

To  shake  the  very  heaven  on  High 
With  tumult  as  they  thunder  by, 

I  have  no  time  for  idle  cares 

Through  gazing  on  the  unquiet  sky. 

And  when  an  hour  with  calmer  wings 

Its  down  upon  my  spirit  flings — 

That  little  time  with  lyre  }(nd  rhyme 

To  while  away — forbidden  tilings ! 
My  heart  would  feel  to  be  a  crime, 

Unless  it  trembled  with  the  strings. 


188 


TO 


HE  bowers  whereat,  in  dreams,  I  see 

The  wantonest  singing  birds, 
Are  lips — and  all  thy  melody 
Of  lip-begotten  words. 

Thine  eyes,  in  Heaven  of  heart  enshrin'd, 

Then  desolately  fall, 
Oh,  God !  on  my  funereal  mind 

Like  starlight  on  a  pall. 

Thy  heart — thy  heart — I  wake  and  sigh, 

And  sleep  to  dream  till  day 
Of  the  truth  that  gold  can  never  buy — 

Of  the  baubles  that  it  may. 


A  DREAM. 

« 

This  poem  was  published  in  the  edition  of  1827.  The  first 
four  lines,  as  given  here,  were  in  that  edition,  hut  were  subse- 
quently omitted,  for  no  obvious  reason.  We  give  it  in  its 
entirety.  

fll    WILDERED  spirit  from  my  birth, 
**     My  spirit  spurned  control ; 
But  now  abroad  on  the  wide  earth, 
Where  wanderest  thou,  my  soul. 

In  visions  of  the  dark  night 

I  have  dream'd  of  joy  departed  ; 

But  a  waking  dream  of  life  and  light 
Hath  left  me  broken-hearted. 

Ah,  what  is  not  a  dream  by  day 

To  him  whose  eyes  are  cast 
On  things  around  him  with  a  ray 

Turned  back  upon  the  past  ? 

That  holy  dream — that  holy  dream, 
While  all  the  world  were  chiding, 
Hath  cheered  me  as  a  lovely  beam 

A  lonely  spirit  guiding. 

185 


186  A  DitEAM. 

What  tho'  that  light,  thro'  storm  and  night, 

So  trembled  from  afar, — 
What  could  there  be  more  purely  bright 

In  Truth's  day  star  ? 


THE  LAKE.-TO 

"  spring  of  youth  it  was  my  lot 
To  haunt  of  the  wide  world  a  spot 
The  which  I  could  not  love  the  less, — 
So  lovely  was  the  loveliness 
Of  a  wild  lake,  with  black  rock  bound, 
And  the  tall  pines  that  towered  around. 
But  when  the  night  had  thrown  her  pall 
Upon  that  spot,  as  upon  all, 
And  the  mystic  wind  went  by 
Murmuring  in  melody, — 
Then — ah,  then  I  would  awake 
To  the  terror  of  the  lone  lake. 
Yet  that  terror  was  not  fright, 
But  a  tremulous  delight, — 
A  feeling  not  the  jeweled  mine 
Could  teach  or  bribe  me  to  define, — 
Nor  Love — although  the  Love  were  thine. 

Death  was  in  that  poisonous  wave, 

And  its  gulf  a  fitting  grave 

For  him  who  thence  could  solace  bring 

To  his  lone  imagining, — 

Whose  solitary  soul  could  make 

An  Eden  of  that  dim  lake. 
187 


SONG. 

SAW  thee  on  the  bridal  day, 

When  a  burning  blush  came  o'er  thee, 
Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 
The  world  all  love  before  thee : 

And  in  thine  eye  a  kindling  light 

(Whatever  it  might  be) 
Was  all  on  Earth  my  aching  sight 

Of  Loveliness  could  see. 

That  blush,  perhaps,  was  maiden  shame, — 

As  such  it  well  may  pass, — 
Though  its  glow  hath  raised  a  fiercer  flame 

In  the  breast  of  him,  alas  ! 

Who  saw  thee  on  that  bridal  day, 

When  that  deep  blush  would  come  o'er  thee, 
Though  happiness  around  thee  lay, 

The  world  all  love  before  thee. 


188 


HYMN  IN  HONOR  OF  HARMODIUS  AND 
ARISTOGEITON. 

This  poem — which  only  appears  tame  by  contrast  with  some 
of  Poe's  own  poems — appeared  in  the  edition  of  1827.  By  some 
mischance  they  have  failed  to  appear  in  any  subsequent  edition. 
The  great  Hymn  has  been  translated  again,  and  again,  and 
still  again  ;  but  few  have  given  it  as  truthful  and  poetic  a 
rendering.  Some  have  fancied  it  one  of  the  out-comes  of  Poe's 
Hellenic  expedition — if  that  ever  took  place  except  in  his  fertile 
brain.  

H^KEATHED  in  myrtle,  iny  sword  I'll  conceal, 
**^     Like  those  champions,  devoted  and  brave, 
When  they  plunged  in  the  tyrant  their  steel, 
And  to  Athens  deliverance  gave. 

Beloved  heroes,  your  deathless  souls  roam 
In  the  joy-breathing  isles  of  the  blest ; 

Where  the  mighty  of  old  have  their  home—. 
Where  Achilles  and  Diomed  rest. 

In  fresh  myrtles  my  blade  I'll  entwine 

Like  Harmodius,  the  gallant  and  good, 
When  he  made  at  the  tutelar  shrine 

A  libation  of  tyranny's  blood. 
189 


190 


HYMN. 


Ye  deliverers  of  Atlun3  from  sliamo — 
Ye  avengers  of  Liberty's  wrongs  J 

Endless  ages  shall  cherub  your  fame. 
Embalmed  in  their  echoing  songs. 


INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE. 

In  the  edition  of  1829  appeared  a  poetical  "  Introduction"  of 
sixty-six  lines,  into  which  the  Preface  of  1829  had  been  ex- 
panded From  subsequent  editions  both  of  those  articles  were 
suppressed.  We  deem  it  right,  that  the  admirers  of  the  poet 
should  have  an  opportunity  of  judging  of  the  young  writer's 
powers  at  that  time.  So  we  give  some  thirty  lines  of  the  "  In- 
troduction," which,  by  the  way,  is  rich  in  autobiographical 
references  :  

jEUCCEEDING  years,  too  wild  for  song, 

Then  rolled  like  tropic  years  along, 
Where,  through  the  garish  lights  that  fly 
Dying  along  the  troubled  sky, 
Lay  bare,  through  vistas  thunder-riven, 
The  blackness  of  the  general  heaven, 
That  very  blackness  yet  doth  fling 
Light  on  the  lightning's  silver-wing. 

For  being  an  idle  boy  iang  syne, 
Who  read  Anacreon  and  drank  wine, 
I  early  found  Anacreon's  rhymes 
Were  almost  passionate  sometimes — 
And  by  strange  alchymy  of  brain, 

His  pleasures  always  turned  to  pain 

His  naivete  to  wild  desire — 

His  wit  to  love — his  wine  to  fire : 
191 


19v  INTRODUCTORY  PREFACE. 

And  so,  being  young  and  dipt  in  folly 
I  fell  in  love  with  melancholly, 
And  used  to  throw  my  earthly  rest 
And  quiet  all  away  in  jest. 
I  could  not  love  except  where  Death 
Was  mingling  his  with  Beauty's  breath— = 
Or  Hymen,  Time  and  Destiny 
Were  stalking  between  her  and  me. 

But  now  my  soul  hath  too  much  room,— 
Gone  are  the  glory  and  the  gloom ; 
The  black  hath  mellowed  into  gray, 
And  all  the  fires  are  fading  away. 

My  draught  of  passion  hath  been  deep-= 
I  revelled — and  I  now  would  sleep — 
And  after  drunkenness  of  soul 
Succeed  the  glories  of  the  bowl — 
An  idle  longing  night  and  day 
To  dream  my  very  life  away.     *     * 


THE  HAPPIEST  DAY. 

This  poem  appeared  with  "  Tamerlane,"  in  the  Boston 
edition  of  1827.  As  is  the  case  with  many  of  Poe's  productions, 
it  is  strongly  imbued  with  his  personal  feelings  and  recollec- 
tions.   

HE  happiest  day — the  happiest  hour — 

My  seared  and  blighted  heart  hath  known ; 
The  highest  hope  of  pride  and  power, 
I  feel  hath  flown. 

Of  power  ?  said  I  ?  Yes  !  such  I  ween  ; 
But  they  have  vanished  long,  alas ! 
But  let  them  pass. 

And  pride,  what  have  I  now  with  thee  ? 

Another  brow  may  even  inherit 
The  venom  thon  hast  poured  on  me — 

Be  still,  my  spirit. 

The  happiest  day — the  happiest  hour — 
Mine  eyes  shall  see — have  ever  seen  ; 

The  brightest  glance  of  pride  and  power 
I  feel  have  been. 


But  were  that  hope  of  pride  and  power 
193 


394  THE  HAPPIEST  DAY 

Now  offered  with  the  pain, 
Ev'n  then  I  felt— that  brightest  hour 
I  could  not  live  again : 

For  on  its  wing  was  dark  alloy, 

And  as  it  fluttered,  fell 
An  essence,  powerful  to  destroy 

A  soul  that  knew  U  well. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM. 

These  two  stanzas  appeared  in  the  Southern  Literary  Messen- 
ger, in  Sept.  1835.  They  were  addressed  to  Eliza  White,  the 
daughter  of  the  proprietor  of  the  Magazine.  This  gentlemen 
died  in  1817,  and  the  young  lady  was  several  times  a  welcome 
visitor  at  the  poet's  house,  at  Fordham,  in  subsequent  years. 

LIZA  !  Let  the  generous  heart 

From  its  present  pathway  part  not; 
Bring  every  thing  which  now  thou  art, 
Be  no  thing  which  thou  art  not. 

So  with  the  world  thy  gentle  ways— 

Thy  unassuming  beauty — 
And  truth — shall  be  a  theme  of  praise 

For  ever — and  love  a  duty. 


PS 

A I 


M 


